LIBRARY  ' 

^S  ANGELES.  ^UF. 


In  the  Wilderness. 


BV 

CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER, 

AUTHOR    OF    "  MV   SUMMER  IN  A  GARDEN,"   "  BACKLOG   STUDIES, 
"  SAUNTERINGS,"   ETC. 


EIGHTH   EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY. 

9^  11 


Copyright,  1878. 
BY  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


■••  «    «     c  c 


CONTENTS. 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I.     HO-W  I  KILLED  A  BeAB 5 

II.  Lost  in  the  "Woods        .       /       .       .       .      21 

m.  A  Fight  with  a  Tkout     •       •       •       •       •    41 

IV.  A-HuisTDfG  OF  THE  DeER         ....          64 

V.    A  Character  Study 82 

VI.    Camping  Out ,124 

VII.    A  TTilderxess  Roimance 147 

VIII.  What  So:me  People  call  Pleasure  .       .       1G8 


HOW  SPRING  CA]ME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND        .  197 
'74.    How  Spring  cajie  in  New  England     By 
A  FwEAEER  OF  *"^^" 109 


E^  THE  WILDEEITESS. 
I. 

EOW  I   KILLED   A   BEAR. 

||0  many  conflicting  accounts  have  ap- 
peared about  ni}'  casual  encounter  with 
an  Adirondack  bear  last  summer,  that 
in  justice  to  the  public,  to  m3-self,  and  to  the 
bear,  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  plain  statement 
of  the  facts.  Besides,  it  is  so  seldom  I  have 
occasion  to  kill  a  bear,  that  the  celebration  of 
the  exploit  may  be  excused. 

The  encounter  was  unpremeditated  on  both 
sides.  I  was  not  hunting  for  a  bear,  and  I 
bave  no  reason  to  suppose  that  a  bear  was  look- 
ing for  me.  The  fact  is,  that  we  were  both  out 
blackberrj'ing,  and  met  by  chance, — the  usual 
way.     There  is   among  the  Adu'ondack  \isit0r3 


6  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

alwaj's  a  great  deal  of  conversation  about  bears, 
—  a  general  expression  of  the  wish  to  see  one  in 
the  woods,  and  much  speculation  as  to  how  a 
person  would  act  if  he  or  she  chanced  to  meet 
one.  But  bears  are  scarce  and  timid,  and  ap- 
pear only  to  a  favored  few. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  August,  just  the  sort 
of  day  when  an  adventure  of  any  kind  seemed 
impossible.  But  it  occurred  to  the  housekeepers 
at  our  cottage  —  there  were  four  of  them  —  to. 
send  me  to  the  clearing,  on  the  mountain  back 
of  the  house,  to  pick  blackberries.  4It  was  rather 
a  series  of  small  clearings,  running  up  into  the 
forest,  much  overgrown  with  bushes  and  briers, 
and  not  unromantic.  Cows  pastured  there,  pene- 
trating through  the  leafy  passages  from  one  open- 
ing to  another,  and  browsing  among  the  bushes. 
I  was  kindly  furnished  with  a  six-quart  pail,  and 
told  not  to  be  gone  long. 

Not  from  mny  predator}^  instinct,  but  to  save 
appearances,  I  took  a  gun.  It  adds  to  the  manly 
aspect  of  a  person  with  a  tin  pail  if  he  also 
cari'ies  a  gun.  rii  was  possible  I  might  start  up  a 


EOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR. 


partridge ;  though  how  I  was  to  hit  him,  if  he 
Btarted  up  instead  of  standing  still,  puzzled  me. 
Many  people  use  a  shot-gun  for  partridges.  I 
prefer  the  rifle :  it  makes  a  clean  job  of  death, 
and  does  not  prematurely  stuff  the  bird  with 
globules  of  lead.l  The  rifle  was  a  Sharp's,  carry- 
ing a  ball  cartridge  (ten  to  the  pound) ,  —  an  ex- 
cellent  weapon  belonging  to  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  had  intended,  for  a  good  many  j'ears  back, 
to  kill  a  deer  with  it.     He  could  hit  a  tree  with  it 

—  if  the  wind  did  not  blow,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  just  right,  and  the  tree  was  not  too  far  off 

—  nearly  ever}-  time.  Of  course,  the  tree  must 
have  some  size.  Needless  to  say  that  I  was  at 
that  time  no  sportsman.  Years  ago  I  killed  a 
robin  under  the  most  hmnihating  circumstances. 
The  bu-d  was  in  a  lov/  cherry-tree.  I  loaded  a 
big  shot-gun  ipretty  full,  crept  up  under  the  tree, 
rested  the  gun  on  the  fence,  with  the  muzzle 
more  than  ten  feet  from  the  bird,  shut  both  eyes, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  When  I  got  up  to  see 
what  had  happened,  the  robin  was  scattered  about 
under  the  tree  in  more  than  a  thousand  pieces, 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


no  one  of  which  was  big  enough  to  enable  a 
naturalist  to  decide  from  it  to  what  species  it 
belonged.  This  disgusted  me  with  the  life  of  a 
sportsman.  I  mention  the  incident  to  show,  that, 
although  I  went  blackberrjing  ai-med,  there  was 
not  much  inequahtj-  between  me  and  the  bear. 

In  this  blackberrj-'patch  bears  had  been  seen. 
The  summer  before,  our  colored  cook,  accom- 
panied b}^  a  little  girl  of  the  vicinage,  was  pick- 
ing berries  there  one  da}-,  when  a  bear  came  out 
of  the  woods,  and  wall^ed  towards  them.  The 
girl  took  to  her  heels,  and  escaped.  Aunt  Chloe 
was  paral3'zed  with  terror.  Instead  of  attempt- 
ing to  run,  she  sat  down  on  the  ground  where 
she  was  standing,  and  began  to  weep  and  scream, 
giving  herself  up  for  lost.  The  bear  was  bewil- 
dered by  this  condnct.  He  approached  and 
looked  at  her;  he  walked  around  and  surve3'ed 
lier.  Probably  he  had  never  seen  a  colored  per- 
son before,  and  did  not  know  whether  she  would 
Agree  with  him  :  at  any  rate,  after  watching  her  a 
few  moments,  he  turned  about,  and  went  into  the 
forest.     This  is  an  authentic  instance  of  the  deli- 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  9 

cate  consideration  of  a  bear,  and  is  much  more 
remarkable  than  the  forbearance  towards  the 
African  slave  of  the  well-known  lion,  because  the 
bear  had  no  thorn  in  his  foot. 

When  I  had  climbed  the  hill,  I  set  up  mj^  riHe 
against  a  tree,  and  began  picking  ben-ies,  lured 
on  from  bush  to  bush  by  the  black  gleam  of  fruit 
(that  always  promises  more  in  the  distance  than 
it  reahzes  when  3'ou  reach  it)  ;  penetrating  farther 
and  farther,  through  leaf-shaded  cow-paths  flecked 
with  sunlight,  into  clearing  after  clearing.  I 
could  hear  on  all  sides  the  tinkle  of  bells,  the 
cracking  of  sticks,  and  the  stamping  of  cattle 
that  were  taking  refuge  in  the  thicket  from  the 
flies.  Occasionally,  as  I  broke  through  a  covert, 
I  encountered  a  meek  cow,  who  stared  at  me 
stupidly  for  a  second,  and  then  shambled  off  into 
the  brush.  I  became  accustomed  to  this  dimib 
socict}',  and  picked  on  in  silence,  attributing  all 
the  wood-noises  to  the  cattle,  thinking  nothing 
of  an}^  real  bear.  In  jDoint  of  fact,  however,  I 
was  thinking  all  the  time  of  a  nice  romantic  bear, 
and,  as  I  picked,  was  composing  a  story  about  a 


10  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


generous  she-bear  who  had  lost  her  cub,  and  who 
seized  a  small  girl  in  this  yer}-  wood,  carried  her 
tenderly  off  to  a  cave,  and  brought  her  up  on 
bear's  milli  and  hone3\  When  the  girl  got  big 
enough  to  run  awa}',  moved  by  her  inhciited  in- 
stincts, she  escaped,  and  came  into  the  valley  to 
her  father's  house  (this  part  of  the  story  was  to 
be  worked  out,  so  that  the  child  would  know  her 
father  by  some  family  resemblance,  and  have 
some  language  in  which  to  address  him),  and 
told  him  where  the  bear  lived.  The  father  took 
his  gun,  and,  guided  by  the  unfeeling  daughter, 
went  into  the  woods  and  shot  the  bear,  who 
never  made  any  resistance,  and  onl}^,  when  d3ing, 
turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  her  murderer.  The 
moral  of  the  tale  was  to  be  kindness  to  animals.  ; 
I  was  in  the  midst  of  this  tale,  when  I  hap- 
pened to  look  some  rods  awa}^  to  the  other  cdgo 
>f  the  clearing,  and  there  was  a  bear !  He  was 
standing  on  liis  hind-legs,  and  doing  just  what  I 
^ras  doing,  —  picking  blackberries.  With  one 
paw  he  bent  down  the  bush,  while  with  the  other 
he  clawed  the  berries  iiito  his  mouth, — green 


now  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  11 

ones  and  all.  To  say  that  I  was  astonished  ia 
inside  the  inaik.  I  suddenly  discovered  that  I 
didn't  want  to  see  a  bear,  after  all.  At  about 
the  same  moment  the  bear  saw  me,  stopped  eat- 
ing berries,  and  regarded  me  with  a  glad  sui'- 
prise.  It  is  all  ver}^  well  to  imagine  what  you 
would  do  under  such  cu-cumstances.  Probably 
you  wouldn't  do  it :  I  didn't.  The  bear  dropped 
down  on  his  fore-feet,  and  came  slowly  towards 
me.  CUmbing  a  tree  was  of  no  use,  with  so 
good  a  climber  in  the  rear.  If  I  started  to  run, 
I  had  no  doubt  the  bear  would  give  chase ;  and 
although  a  bear  cannot  run  down  hill  as  fast  as 
he  can  run  up  hill,  yet  I  felt  that  he  could  get 
over  this  rough,  brush-tangled  ground  faster  than 
I  could. 

The  bear  was  approaching.  It  suddenly  oc- 
cun-ed  to  me  how  I  could  divert  his  mind  until  I 
could  faU  back  upon  my  mihtar}^  base.  My  pail 
was  nearly  full  of  excellent  berries,  — much  better 
than  the  bear  could  pick  himself.  I  put  the  pail 
on  the  ground,  and  slowty  backed  away  from  it, 
kee^nng  my  eye,  as  beast-tamers  do,  on  the  bear 
The  ruse  succeeded. 


12  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  bear  came  up  to  the  berries,  and  stopped 
Not  accustomed  to  eat  out  of  a  pail,  he  tipped  it 
over,  and  nosed  about  in  the  fruit,  "  gorming  " 
(if  there  is  such  a  word)  it  down,  mixed  with 
leaves  and  dirt,  like  a  pig.  The  bear  is  a  worse 
feeder  than  the  pig.  jT  Whenever  he  distm'bs  a 
niaple-sugar  camp  in  the  spring,  he  alwa^'s  upsets 
the  buckets  of  sirup,  and  tramples  round  in  the 
sticky  sweets,  wasting  more  than  he  eats.  The 
bear's  manners  are  thoroughly  disagreeable. J 

As  soon  as  my  enemj-'s  head  was  down,  I 
started  and  ran.  Somewhat  out  of  breath,  and 
shak}',  I  reached  m}"  faithful  rifle.  It  was  not  a 
moment  too  soon.  I  heard  the  bear  crashing 
through  the  brush  after  me.  Enraged  at  my 
duplicit3^,  he  was  now  coming  on  with  blood  in  his 
QjQ.  I  felt  that  the  time  of  one  of  us  was 
probably  short.  The  rapidity  of  thought  at  such 
moments  of  peril  is  well  known.  I  thought  an 
octavo  volume,  had  it  illustrated  and  i^ubhshed, 
sold  fifty  thousand  copies,  and  went  to  Europe 
on  the  proceeds,  while  that  bear  was  loping  across 
^e  clearing.     As  I  was  cocking  the  gun,  I  made 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  13 

a  hasty  and  nnsatisfactoiy  rcTiew  of  m}'  whole 
Ufe.  I  noted,  that,  even  in  such  a  compiilsoij 
review,  it  is  ahnost  impossible  to  tLiiili  of  an}- 
good  thhig  you  have  done.  The  sins  come  out 
uncommonl}'  strong.  I  recollected  a  newspaper 
subscription  I  had  delayed  pacing  years  and 
3'ears  ago,  until  both  editor  and  newspaper  were 
dead,  and  which  now  never  could  be  paid  to  all 
eternit}'. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  remember  what  I  had  read  about 
encounters  with  bears.  I  couldn't  recall  an  in- 
stance in  which  a  man  had  run  awaj^  from  a  bear 
in  the  woods  and  escaped,  although  I  recalled 
plent}"  where  the  bear  had  run  from  the  man  and 
got  off.  I  tried  to  think  what  is  the  best  wa}'  to 
kill  a  bear  with  a  gun,  when  3'ou  are  not  near 
enough  to  club  him  with  the  stock.  My  first 
txiought  was  to  fire  at  his  head  ;  to  plant  the  ball 
between  his  eyes  :  but  this  is  a  dangerous  experi- 
ment. The  bear's  brain  is  ver}^  small:  and,  un- 
less you  hit  that,  the  bear  does  not  mind  a  bullet 
in  Ms  lie  ad  ;  that  is,  not  at  the  time.     I  remem* 


to  I 


14  IN  THE  WILDERNESS, 

•^ered  that  the  instant  death  of  the  bear  would 
follow  a  bullet  planted  just  back  of  his  fore-leg, 
and  sent  into  his  heart.  This  spot  is  also  diffi- 
cult to  reach,  unless  the  bear  stands  off,  side 
towards  you,  like  a  target.  I  finally  determined 
to  fire  at  him  generally. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

The  contest  seemed  to  me  very  different  from 
any  thing  at  Creedmoor.  I  had  carefully  read  the 
reports  of  the  shooting  there  ;  but  it  was  not  easy 
to  apply  the  experience  I  had  thus  acquii-ed.  I 
hesitated  whether  I  had  better  fii-e  lying  on  my 
stomach  ;  or  l^'ing  on  m}'  back,  and  resting  the  gun 
on  ni}^  toes.  But  in  neither  position,  I  reflected, 
could  I  see  the  bear  until  he  was  upon  me.  The 
range  was  too  short ;  and  the  bear  wouldn't  wait 
for  me  to  examine  the  thermometer,  and  note  the 
direction  of  the  wind.  Trial  of  the  Creedmoor 
method,  therefore,  had  to  be  abandoned ;  and  T 
bitterl)^  regretted  that  I  had  not  read  more  ac- 
counts of  offhand  shooting,  j 

For  the  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  fix  my  last  thoughts  upon  my  family 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  15 

As  my  family  is  small,  this  was  not  difficult. 
Dread  of  displeasing  my  wife,  or  hurting  her 
feelings,  was  uppermost  in  my  mind.  What 
would  be  her  anxiety  as  hour  after  hour  passed 
oil,  and  I  did  not  return  !  What  would  the  rest  of 
the  household  think  as  the  afternoon  passed,  and 
no  blackberries  came  !  What  would  be  my  wife's 
mortification  when  the  news  was  brought  that  her 
husband  had  been  eaten  by  a  bear !  I  cannot 
imagine  any  thing  more  ignominious  than  to  have 
a  husband  eaten  b}^  a  bear.  And  this  was  not 
my  only  anxiety.  The  mind  at  such  times  is  not 
under  control.  With  the  gravest  fears  the  most 
whimsical  ideas  will  occur.  I  looked  beyond  the 
mourning  friends,  and  thought  what  kind  of  an 
epitaph  they  would  be  compelled  to  put  upon  the 
Btone.     Something  like  this  :  — 

HERE   LIE   THE   REMAINS 
OF 


EATEN  BY  A   BEAB 

Aug.  20,  1877. 


It  is  a  very  unheroic  and  even  disagreeable 


16  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

epitaph.  That  "  eaten  b}'  a  bear  "  is  intolerable. 
It  is  gi'otesqiie.  Ami  then  I  thought  what  an 
inadequate  language  the  Enghsh  is  for  compact; 
expression.  It  would  not  answ^er  to  put  upon  the 
stone  simply  "  eaten  ; "  for  that  is  indefinite,  and 
requires  explanation :  it  might  mean  eaten  b}'  a 
cannibal,  f'^his  difficulty  could  not  occur  in  the 
German,  where  essen  signifies  the  act  of  feeding 
b}"  a  man,  and  fr essen  hy  a  beast.  How  simple 
the  thing  would  be  in  German  !  — 

niER   LIEGT 
HOCIIWOIILGEBOREN 

HERR   ±—^\—^ — , 

GEFRESSEN 

Aug.  20,  1877. 

That  explains  itself.  The  well-born  one  wra 
eaten  by  a  beast,  and  presumabl}^  hy  a  bear,  — 
an  animal  that  has  a  bad  reputation  since  the 
da3'S  of  Elisha.J 

The  bear  was  coming  on  ;  he  had,  m  tact,  come 
on.  I  judged  that  he  could  see  the  whites  of  my 
eyes.  All  m}'  subsequent  rellections  were  cow- 
fusiMi.      I  raised  the  gun,   covered  the  bcai*'s 


now  I  KILLED  A  BEA.^.  17 

breast  with  the  sight,  and  let  drive.  Then  I 
turned,  and  ran  hke  a  deer.  I  did  not  hear  the 
bear  pui-suing.  I  looked  back.  The  bear  had 
stopped.  He  was  13'ing  down.  I  then  remem- 
bered that  the  best  thing  to  do  after  having  fii<?d 
yoiu-  gun  is  to  reload  it.  I  slipped  in  a  charge, 
keeping  my  eyes  on  the  bear.  He  never  stuTed. 
I  walked  back  suspiciousl}".  There  was  a  quiver 
in  the  hind-legs,  but  no  other  motion.  Still  he 
might  be  shamming :  bears  often  sham.  To 
make  sure,  I  approached,  and  put  a  ball  into  his 
head.  He  didn't  mind  it  now  :  he  minded  noth- 
ing. Death  had  come  to  him  with  a  merciful 
suddenness.  He  was  calm  in  death.  In  order 
that  he  might  remain  so,  I  blew  his  brains  out, 
and  then  started  for  home.     I  had  killed  a  bear ! 

Notwithstanding  my  excitement,  I  managed  to 
sauntei  Into  the  house  with  an  unconcerned  air. 
There  was  a  chorus  of  voices  :  — 

"  Where  are  3'our  blackberries?  " 

"  Why  were  3-ou  gone  so  long?  ** 

''  "WTiere's  your  pail?  *' 

"I  left  the  pail/* 


18  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

"  Left  the  pail?     What  for?  '' 

*'  A  bear  wanted  it." 

*'  Oh,  nonsense  !  " 

''  Well,  the  last  I  saw  of  it,  a  bear  had  it.** 

*'  Oh,  come  !     You  didn't  real!}'  see  a  bear?  **   • 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  really  see  a  real  bear,** 

"Did  he  run?'* 

*'  Yes  :  he  ran  after  me.** 

**  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  What  did  3'ou 
do?" 

''Oh!  nothing  particular  —  except  kill  the 
bear." 

Cries  of  "Gammon!"  "Don't  believe  it!*' 
"Where's  the  bear?" 

"If  3'ou  want  to  see  the  bear,  jow  must  go 
up  into  the  woods.  I  couldn't  bring  him  down 
alone." 

Having  satisfied  the  household  that  something 
extraordinary  had  occurred,  and  excited  the  post- 
humous fear  of  some  of  them  for  m}'  own  safety, 
I  went  down  into  the  valley  to  get  help.  The 
great  bear -hunter,  who  keeps  one  of  the  summer 
boai'ding-houscs,  received  my  story  with  a  smile 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  19 

of  incredulity ;  and  the  incredulit}^  spread  to  the 
other  inhabitants  and  to  the  boarders  as  soon  as 
the  story  was  known.  However,  as  I  insisted  in 
all  soberness,  and  offered  to  lead  them  to  the 
bear,  a  party  of  forty  or  fifty  people  at  last 
started  off  with  me  to  bring  the  bear  in.  No- 
body believed  there  was  any  bear  in  the  case  )  but 
everybody  who  could  get  a  gun  carried  one  ;  and 
we  went  into  the  woods  armed  with  guns,  pistols, 
pitcnforks,  and  sticks,  against  all  contingencies 
or  surprises,  —  a  crowd  made  up  mostly  of  scoff- 
ers and  jeerers. 

But  when  I  led  the  waj^  to  the  fatal  spot,  and 
pointed  out  the  bear,  13'ing  loeacefuUy  wrapped 
in  his  own  skin,  something  like  terror  seized  the 
boarders,  and  genuine  excitement  the  natives. 
It  was  a  no-mistake  bear,  b}^  George!  and  the 
hero  of  the  fight  —  well,  I  will  not  insist  upon 
that.  But  what  a  i^rocession  that  was,  carr3*ing 
the  bear  home  !  and  what  a  congi-egation  was 
speedil}'  gathered  in  the  vallej^  to  see  the  bear  I 
Ou_r  best  preacher  up  there  never  drew  any  thing 
like  it  on  Sunday. 


20  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

And  I  must  say  that  m}-  particular  friends,  who 
were  sportsmen,  behaved  ver^-  well,  on  the  whole. 
The}'  didn't  deny  that  it  was  a  bear,  although 
they  said  it  was  small  for  a  bear.  ^  Mr.  Deane, 
who  is  equall}^  good  with  a  rifle  and  a  rod,  admit- 
ted that  it  was  a  very  fair  shot.  He  is  probably 
the  best  salmon-fisher  in  the  United  States,  and 
he  is  an  equall}'  good  hunter.  I  suppose  there  ia 
no  person  in  America  who  is  more  desirous  to 
kill  a  moose  than  he.  But  he  needlessl}'  re- 
marked, after  he  had  examined  the  wound  in  the 
bear,  that  he  had  seen  that  kind  of  a  shot  made 
by  a  cow's  horn  .J 

This  sort  of  talk  affected  me  not.  When  I 
went  to  sleep  that  night,  my  last  delicious  thought 
was,  "  I've  killed  a  bear !  ** 


n. 


LOST   IN   THE   WOODS. 


T  ought  to  be  said,  b}'  wa}'  of  explana- 
tion, that  my  being  lost  in  the  woods 
was  not  premeditated.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  informal.  This  apolog}'  can  be 
necessaiy  onl}'  to  those  who  are  familiar  with  the 
Adirondack  literature.  An}'  person  not  familiar 
with  it  would  see  the  absurdit}'  of  one  going  to 
the  Northern  Wilderness  with  the  deliberate  pur- 
pose of  writing  about  himself  as  a  lost  man.  It 
may  be  true,  that  a  book  about  this  wild  tract 
would  not  be  recognized  as  complete  without  a 
lost-man  stor}'  in  it ;  since  it  is  almost  as  easy 
for  a  strano'er  to  get  lost  in  the  Adirondacks  as 
in  Boston.  I  merely  desire  to  say  that  my 
unimportant  adventui-e  is  not  narrated  in  answer 

21 


22  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

to  the  popular  demand,  and  I  do  not  "^^ish  to  be 
held  responsible  for  its  variation  from  the  t3'pical 
character  of  such  experiences. 

We  had  been  in  camp  a  week,  on  the  Upper 
Ausable  Lake.  This  is  a  gem  —  emerald  or  tur- 
quoise as  the  light  changes  it  —  set  in  the  virgin 
forest.  It  is  not  a  large  body  of  water,  is  ir- 
regulai  in  form,  and  about  a  mile  and  a  half  in 
length ;  but  in  the  sweep  of  its  wooded  shores, 
and  the  lovely  contour  of  the  lofty  mountains 
that  guard  it,  the  lake  is  probabl}^  the  most 
charming  in  America.  "\Yliy  the  j'oung  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  camp  there  occasionally  vex 
the  days  and  nights  with  hooting,  and  singing 
sentimental  songs,  is  a  mysterj^  even  to  the 
laughing  loon. 

I  left  my  companions  there  one  Saturday 
morning,  to  return  to  Keene  Valle}^  intending  to 
fish  down  the  Ausable  River.  The  Upper  Lake 
discharges  itself  into  the  Lower  by  a  brook 
which  winds  through  a  mile  and  a  half  of  swamp 
and  woods.  Out  of  the  north  end  of  the  Lower 
Lake,  whi:;h  is  a  huge  sink  in  the  mountains,  and 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  23 

mirrors  the  savage  precipices,  the  Ausable  breaks 
its  rocky  barriers,  and  flows  through  a  wild 
gorge,  several  miles,  to  the  vallej'  below.  Be- 
tween the  Lower  Lake  and  the  settlements  is 
rn  extensive  forest,  traversed  by  a  cart-path, 
admii'ably  constructed  of  loose  stones,  roots  of 
trees,  decaj^ed  logs,  slippery  rocks,  and  mud. 
The  gorge  of  the  river  forms  its  western  bound  a 
ry.  I  followed  this  caricatm-e  of  a  road  a  mile 
or  more ;  then  gave  m}^  luggage  to  the  guide  to 
carry  home,  and  struck  off  through  the  forest,  by 
compass,  to  the  river.  I  promised  mj'self  an 
exciting  scramble  down  this  httle-frequented 
canon,  and  a  creel  full  of  trout.  There  was  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  river,  or  in  descending 
the  steep  jDrecipice  to  its  bed :  getting  into  a 
scrape  is  usuall}"  the  easiest  joart  of  it.  The 
river  is  strewn  with  bowlders,  big  and  little, 
through  which  the  amber  water  rushes  with  an 
unceasing  thunderous  roar,  now  plunging  down 
in  white  falls,  then  swirling  round  in  dark  pools. 
The  da^',  already  past  meridian,  was  delightful ; 
at  least,  the  blue  strip  of  it  I  could  see  overhead. 


24  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Better  pools  and  rapids  for  trout  never  were,  I 
thought,  aG  I  concealed  m^'self  behind  a  bowlder, 
and  made  the  first  cast.  There  is  nothing  like 
the  thrill  of  expectation  over  the  first  thi'ow  in 
unfamiliar  waters.  Fishing  is  lilvc  gambling,  in 
that  failure  onlj^  excites  hope  of  a  fortuuate 
throw  next  time.  There  was  no  rise  to  the 
*'  leader"  on  the  first  cast,  nor  on  the  twenty- 
first  ;  and  I  cautiously  worked  m}^  way  down 
stream,  throwing  right  and  left.  When  I  had 
gone  half  a  mile,  m}'  opinion  of  the  character  of 
the  pools  was  unchanged  :  never  were  there  such 
places  for  trout ;  but  the  trout  were  out  of  their 
places.  Perhaps  the}^  didn't  care  for  the  fly: 
some  trout  seem  to  be  so  unsophisticated  as  to 
prefer  the  worm.  I  replaced  the  fl}^  with  a  baited 
hook :  the  -vNorm  squirmed ;  the  waters  rushed 
and  roared  ;  a  cloud  sailed  across  the  blue :  no . 
I  rout  rose  to  the  lonesome  opportunit}'.  There 
is  a  certain  companionship  in  the  presence  of 
trout,  cspociall}^  when  3'ou  can  feel  them  flopping 
in  3'our  fish-basket ;  but  it  became  evident  that 
theie  were   no   trout  in  this  wilderness,  and   e 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  25 

sense  of  isolation  for  the  first  time  came  over  mo 
There  was  no  living  thing  near.  The  river  had 
b}'  this  time  entered  a  deeper  gorge ;  walls  o\ 
rocks  rose  perpendicularly  on  either  side, — pic 
turesque  rocks,  painted  many  colors  by  the  oxide 
of  iron.  It  was  not  possible  to  climb  out  of  the 
gorge ;  it  was  impossible  to  find  a  wa}-  by  the 
side  of  the  river ;  and  getting  down  the  bed, 
over  the  falls,  and  through  the  flumes,  was  not 
eas}',  and  consimaed  time. 

Was  that  thunder  ?  Very  likely.  But  thunder- 
showers  are  alwaj's  brewing  in  these  mountain- 
fortresses,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  there 
was  anj^  thing  personal  in  it.  Very  soon,  how- 
ever, the  hole  in  the  sk}^  closed  in,  and  the  rain 
dashed  down.  It  seemed  a  providential  time  to 
eat  m}^  luncheon ;  and  I  took  shelter  under  a 
scraggy  pine  that  had  rooted  itself  in  the  edge  of 
the  rocky  slope.  The  shower  soon  passed,  and  1 
continued  my  journe}',  creeping  over  the  slippery 
rocks,  and  continuing  to  show  my  confidence  in 
the  unresponsive  trout.  The  way  gi^ew  wilder 
and  more  gi'ewsome.     The  thunder  began  again, 


5:8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

rolling  along  over  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and 
reverberating  in  sharp  concussions  in  the  gorge  : 
the  hghtning  also  darted  down  into  the  darkening 
passage,  and  then  the  rain.  Every  enhghtencid 
being,  even  if  he  is  in  a  fisherman's  dress  of  shirt 
and  pantaloons,  hates  to  get  wet ;  and  I  ignomin 
iousl}'  crept  under  the  edge  of  a  sloping  bowlder. 
It  was  all  ver}'  well  at  first,  until  streams  of  water 
began  to  crawl  along  the  face  of  the  rock,  and 
trickle  down  the  back  of  m}"  neck.  This  was  re- 
fined miser}^,  unheroic  and  humiliating,  as  suffer- 
ing alwaj's  is  when  unaccompanied  by  resignation. 
A  longer  time  than  I  knew  was  consumed  in 
this  and  repeated  efforts  to  wait  for  the  slacken- 
ing and  renewing  storm  to  pass  away.  In  the 
intervals  of  calm  I  still  fished,  and  even  de- 
scended to  what  a  sportsman  considers  incredible 
baseness:  I  put  a  "sinker"  on  my  line.  It  is 
the  practice  of  the  countrj-folk,  whose  only 
object  is  to  get  fish,  to  use  a  good  deal  of  bait, 
sink  tlie  hook  to  the  bottom  of  the  pools,  and 
wait  the  slow  appetite  of  the  summer  trout.  I 
tried  this  also.     I  might  as  well  have  fished  in  a 


LOST  IN  TITE  WOODS.  27 

pork-barrel.  It  is  true,  that,  in  one  deep,  black, 
round  ix)ol,  I  lured  a  small  trout  from  the  bottom, 
and  deposited  him  in  the  creel ;  but  it  was  au 
accident.  Though  I  sat  there  in  the  awful  silence 
(the  roar  of  water  and  thunder  only  emphasizd 
the  stillness)  full  half  an  hour,  I  was  not  en- 
couraged b}'  another  nibble.  Hope,  however,  did 
not  die :  I  alwa^'s  expected  to  find  the  trout  in 
the  next  flume  ;  and  so  I  toiled  slowl}'  on,  uncon- 
scious of  the  passing  time.  At  each  turn  of  the 
stream  I  expected  to  see  the  end,  and  at  each 
turn  I  saw  a  long,  narrow  stretch  of  rocks  and 
foaming  water.  Climbing  out  of  the  ravine  was, 
in  most  places,  simpl}^  impossible  ;  and  I  began  to 
look  with  interest  for  a  slide,  where  bushes  rooted 
in  the  scant  earth  would* enable  me  to  scale  the 
precipice.  I  did  not  doubt  that  I  was  nearly 
through  the  gorge.  I  could  at  length  see  the 
huge  form  of  the  Giant  of  the  Valley,  scarred 
with  avalanches,  at  the  end  of  the  \'ista ;  and  it 
seemed  not  far  off.  But  it  kept  its  distance,  as 
onl}'  a  mountain  can,  while  I  stumbkil  and  shd 
down  the  rocky  way.     The  rain  had  now  set  in 


28  IX  THE  WILDERNESS, 

vnth  persistence,  and  suddenl}'  I  became  aware 
that  it  was  growing  dark  ;  and  I  said  to  m3'seir, 
*'  If  you  don't  wish  to  spend  the  night  in  tliis  hor- 
rible chasm,  3'ou'd  better  escape  speedil3\"  for- 
tunately I  reached  a  i^lace  where  the  face  of  the 
precipice  was  bush-grown,  and  with  considerable 
labor  scrambled  up  it. 

Having  no  doubt  that  I  was  within  half  a  mile, 
perhaps  within  a  few  rods,  of  the  house  above 
the  entrance  of  the  gorge,  and  that,  in  an}-  event, 
I  should  fall  into  the  cart-path  in  a  few  minutes, 
I  struck  boldly  into  the  forest,  congratulating 
myself  on  having  escaped  out  of  the  river.  So 
sure  was  I  of  my  whereabouts,  that  I  did  not 
note  the  bend  of  the  river,  nor  look  at  my  com- 
pass. The  one  trout  in  my  basket  was  no  burden, 
and  I  stepped  lightl}-  out. 

The  forest  was  of  hard- wood,  and  open,  except 
for  a  thick  undergrowth  of  moose-bush.  It  was 
raining,  —  in  fact,  it  had  been  raining,  more  or 
less,  for  a  month,  —  and  the  woods  were  soaked. 
This  moose-bush  is  most  annojing  stuff  to  travel 
through  in  a  rain  ;  for  the  broad  leaves  slap  one 


LOST  m  THE  WOODS.  29 

in  tjio  face,  and  sop  bim  with  "v^'et.  The  way 
p^i'ew  every  moment  more  ding}-.  The  heav}' 
clouds  above  the  thick  foUage  brought  night  on 
prematurel}'.  It  was  decidedly  premature  to  a 
near-sighted  man,  whose  glasses  the  rain  rendered 
useless :  such  a  person  ought  to  be  at  home 
early.  On  leaving  the  river-bank  I  had  borne 
tO'the  left,  so  as  to  be  sure  to  strike  either  the 
clearing  or  the  road,  and  not  wander  off  into  the 
measureless  forest.  I  confidently  pursued  this 
course,  and  went  gayty  on  by  the  left  flank. 
That  I  did  not  come  to  any  opening  or  path,  only 
showed  that  I  had  slightly  mistaken  the  distance  : 
I  was  going  in  the  right  directionr^^^ 

I  was  so  certain  of  this,  that  I  quickened  my 
•pace,  and  got  up  with  alacrit}^  ever}'  time  I  tum- 
bled down  amid  the  slippery  leaves  and  catch- 
ing roots,  and  hurried  on.  And  I  kept  to  the 
left.  It  even  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  turning 
to  the  left  so  much,  that  I  might  come  back  to 
the  river  again.  It  grow  more  dusk}',  and  rained 
more  "siolently ;  but  there  was  nothing  alarming 
In  the  situation,  since  I  knew  exactly  where  I 


30  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

was.  It  was  a  little  mortifj'ing  that  I  had  mis- 
calculated the  distance :  3'et,  so  far  was  I  from 
feeling  any  uneasiness  about  this,  that  I  quick- 
ened m}'  pace  again,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  was 
in  a  full  run ;  that  is,  as  full  a  run  as  a  loerson 
can  indulge  in  in  the  dusk,  with  so  many  trees  in 
the  wa}^  No  nervousness,  but  simply  a  reason- 
able desh-e  to  get  there.  I  desired  to  look  upon 
mj'self  as  the  person  "  not  lost,  but  gone  before.'* 
As  time  passed,  and  darkness  fell,  and  no  clear- 
ing or  road  appeared,  I  ran  a  httle  faster.  'It 
didn't  seem  possible  that  the  people  had  moved, 
or  the  road  been  changed  ;  and  3'et  I  was  sure  of 
my  dii'ection.  I  went  on  with  an  energ}'-  in- 
creased by  the  ridiculousness  of  the  situation,  the 
danger  that  an  experienced  woodsman  was  in 
of  getting  home  late  for  supper ;  the  lateness  of 
the  meal  being  nothing  to  the  gibes  of  the  un- 
lost.  How  long  I  kept  this  course,  and  how  far 
I  went  on,  I  do  not  know ;  but  suddenly  I 
stumbled  against  an  ill-placed  tree,  and  sat  down 
on  the  soaked  ground,  a  trifle  out  of  breath.  It 
then  occmTed  to  me  that  I  had  better  verify  my 


LOST  IX  THE  WOODS.  31 

course  by  the  compass.  There  was  scarcel}' light 
enough  to  distinguish  the  black  end  of  the  needle. 
To  my  amazement,  the  compass,  which  was  made 
near  Greenwich,  was  wrong.  Allowing  for  the 
natural  variation  of  the  needle,  it  was  absurdly' 
wrong.  It  made  out  that  I  was  going  south 
when  I  was  going  north.  It  intimated,  that,  in- 
stead of  turning  to  the  left,  I  had  been  making 
a  circuit  to  the  right.  According  to  the  compass, 
the  Lord  only  knew  where  I  was. 

The  inchnation  of  x)ersons  in  the  woods  to 
travel  in  a  circle  is  unexplained.  I  suppose  it 
arises  from  the  sympathy  of  the  legs  with  the 
brain.  Most  people  reason  in  a  circle :  their 
minds  go  round  and  round,  always  in  the  same 
track.  For  the  last  half-hour  I  had  been  saying 
over  a  sentence  that  started  itself :  "I  wonder 
where  that  road  is !  "  I  had  said  it  over  till  it 
had  lost  all  meaning.  I  kept  going  round  on  it ; 
and  3'et  I  could  not  beheve  that  my  body  had 
been  travelling  in  a  circle.  Not  being  able  to 
recognize  an}-  tracks,  I  have  no  evidence  that  I 
had  so  travelled,  except  the  general  testimony  of 
k)st  men. 


32  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  compass  annoyed  me.  I've  known  cx- 
pvu'iencecV guides  uttcrl}' discredit  it.  It  couldn't 
bo  that  I  was  to  turn  about,  and  go  tlic  way  T 
had  come.  Nevertheless,  I  said  to  m3'self 
*'  You'd  better  keep  a  cool  head,  m}^  bo3',  or  you 
are  in  for  a  night  of  it.  Better  listen  to  science 
than  to  spunlv."  And  I  resolved  to  heed  the 
impartial  needle.  I  was  a  little  weary  of  the 
rough  tramping  :  but  it  was  necessar}"  to  be  mov- 
ing ;  for,  with  wet  clothes  and  the  night  air,  I 
was  decidedl}^  chill}'.  I  turned  towards  the  north, 
and  slipped  and  stumbled  along.  A  more  un- 
inviting forest  to  pass  the  night  in  I  never  saw. 
Ever}'  thing  was  soaked.  If  I  became  exhausted, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  build  a  fire ;  and,  as  I 
walked  on,  I  couldn't  find  a  dr}'  bit  of  wood. 
Even  if  a  little  punk  were  discovered  in  a  rotten 
log,  I  had  no  hatchet  to  cut  fuel.  I  thought  it 
all  over  calml}-.  I  had  the  usual  three  matchea 
in  my  pocket.  I  Iniew  exactl}'  what  would  hap- 
pen if  I  tried  to  l)uild  a  fire.  The  first  match 
would  prove  to  be  wet.  The  second  match,  when 
Btruck,  would  sliine  and  smell,  and  fizz  a  little. 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  33 

and  then  go  out.  There  would  be  onl}'  one 
match  left.  Death  would  ensue  if  it  failed.  I 
should  get  close  to  the  log,  crawl  under  m}'  hat, 
strike  the  match,  see  it  catch,  flicker,  almost  go 
out  (the  reader  painfully  excited  by  this  time) , 
blaze  up,  nearly  expire,  and  flnall}^  fire  the  piinli, 
—  thank  God  !  And  I  said  to  mj'self ,  ' '  The 
pubUc  don't  want  any  more  of  this  thing :  it  is 
played  out.  Either  have  a  box  of  matches,  or 
let  the^first  one  catch  fire." 

In  this  gloomy  mood  I  plunged  along.  The 
prospect  was  cheerless  ;  for,  apart  from  the  com- 
fort that  a  fire  would  give,  it  is  necessar}',  at 
night,  to  keep  off  the  wild  beasts.  I  fancied  I 
could  hear  the  ti'ead  of  the  stealth}'  brutes  fol- 
lowing their  pre}'.  But  there  was  one  source  of 
profound  satisfaction,  — the  catamount  had  been 
killed.  Mr.  Coh-in,  the  triangulating  surveyor 
of  the  Adirondacks,  killed  him  in  his  last  official 
report  to  the  State.  Whether  he  despatched  him 
with  a  theodolite  or  a  barometer  docs  not  mat- 
ter:  he  is  officiall}'  dead,  and  none  of  the  travel- 
lers can  kill  him  any  more.  Yet  he  has  served 
them  a  good  turn. 


34  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I  knew  that  catamount  well.  One  night  when 
\ve  laj'  in  the  bogs  of  the  South  Beaver  Meadow, 
under  a  canopy  of  mosquiioes,  the  serene  mid- 
night was  i)arted  by  a  wild  and  human-like  cry 
from  a  neighboring  mountain.  "  That's  a  cat," 
said  the  guide.  I  felt  in  a  moment  that  it  was 
the  voice  of  "  modern  cultchah."  "Modern  cul- 
ture," saj's  Mr.  Joseph  Cook  in  a  most  impres- 
sive period,  —  "  modern  culture  is  a  child  cr^'ing 
in  the  wilderness,  and  with  no  voice  but  a  cry." 
That  describes  the  catamount  exactly.  The 
next  da}^,  when  we  ascended  the  mountain,  we 
came  upon  the  traces  of  this  brute,  —  a  spot 
where  he  had  stood  and  cried  in  the  night ;  and  I 
confess  that  my  hair  rose  with  the  consciousness 
of  his  recent  presence,  as  it  is  said  to  do  when  a 
spirit  passes  b3\ 

Whatever  consolation  the  absence  of  cata- 
mount in  a  dark,  drenched,  and  howling  wilder- 
ness can  impart,  that  I  experienced ;  but  I 
thought  what  a  satire  upon  ni}'  present  condition 
was  modern  culture,  with  its  plain  thinking  and 
high  living  !     It  was  impossible  to  get  much  sat- 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  35 

isfaction  out  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  —  the  me 
and  the  not-me.  At  this  time  what  impressed 
me  most  was  the  absurdity  of  m}^  position 
looked  at  in  the  light  of  modern  civilization  and 
all  my  advantages  and  acquirements.  It  seemed 
]  it i fill  that  society  could  do  absolutely  nothing 
for  me.  It  was,  in  fact,  humiliating  to  reflect  that 
it  would  now  be  profitable  to  exchange  all  my 
possessions  for  the  woods  instinct  of  the  most 
unlettered  guide.  I  began  to  doubt  the  value  of 
the  ''  culture  "  that  blunts  the  natural  instincts. 

It  began  to  be  a  question  whether  I  could  hold 
out  to  wallv  all  night ;  for  I  must  travel,  or  perish. 
And  now  I  imagined  that  a  spectre  was  wahdng 
b}^  my  side.  This  was  Famine.  To  be  siure,  I 
had  onlj'  recentty  eaten  a  heart}^  luncheon :  but 
the  pangs  of  hunger  got  hold  on  me  when  I 
thought  that  I  should  have  no  supper,  no  break- 
fast ;  and,  as  the  procession  of  unattainable  meals 
stretched  before  me,  I  grew  hungrier  and  hun- 
grier. I  could  feel  that  I  was  becoming  gaunt, 
and  wasting  away :  alread}'  I  seemed  to  be  ema- 
ciated.    It  is  astonishing  how  speedily  a  jocund, 


36  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

well-conditioned  human  being  can  be  trans 
formed  into  a  spectacle  of  povert}'  and  want. 
Lose  a  man  in  the  woods,  drench  him,  tear  his 
l)antaloons,  get  his  imagination  running  on  his 
lost  supper  and  the  cheerful  fireside  that  is  ex- 
pecting him,  and  he  will  become  haggard  in  an 
hour.  I  am  not  dwelling  upon  these  things  to 
excite  the  reader's  s^^mpath}",  but  onl}'  to  advise 
him,  if  he  contemplates  an  adventure  of  this 
kind,  to  provide  himself  with  matches,  kindling- 
wood,  something  more  to  eat  than  one  raw  trout, 
and  not  to  select  a  rainy  night  for  it. 

Nature  is  so  pitiless,  so  unresponsive,  to  a  per- 
son in  trouble  !  I  had  read  of  the  soothing  com- 
panionship of  the  forest,  the  pleasure  of  the 
pathless  woods.  But  I  thought,  as  I  stumbled 
along  in  the  dismal  actualit}^,  that,  if  I  ever  got 
out  of  it,  I  would  write  a  letter  to  the  news- 
papers, exposing  the  whole  thing.  There  is  an 
impassive,  stolid  brutality  about  the  woods,  that 
has  never  been  enough  insisted  on.  I  tried  to 
keep  m}'  mind  fixed  upon  the  fact  of  man's  £11- 
peiioiity  to  Nature ;  liis  ability  to  dominate  and 


LOST  IN  THE   WOODS. 


outwit  her.  M}^  situation  was  an  amusing  satire 
on  this  tliGOiy.  I  fancied  tliat  I  coi  Jd  feel  a  sneer 
in  tlie  woods  at  my  detected  conceit.  There  was 
somethino:  i)ersonal  in  it.  The  downpour  of  tlie 
rain  and  the  shpperiness  of  the  ground  were  ele- 
ments of  discomfort ;  but  there  was,  besides 
these,  a  kind  of  terror  in  the  ver}'  character  of 
the  forest  itself.  I  think  this  arose  not  more 
from  its  immensity  than  from  the  kind  of  stolidity 
to  which  I  have  alluded.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
it  would  be  a  sort  of  rehef  to  kick  the  trees.  1 
don't  wonder  that  the  bears  fall  to,  occasionall}', 
and  scratch  the  bark  off  the  great  pines  and 
maples,  tearing  it  angrily-  away.  One  must  have 
some  vent  to  his  feelings.  It  is  a  common  expe- 
rience of  people  lost  in  the  woods  to  lose  theii 
heads  ;  and  even  the  woodsmen  themselves  are 
not  free  from  this  panic  when  some  accident  has 
thrown  them  out  of  theii'  reckoning.  Fright  un- 
settles the  judgment :  the  oppressive  silence  of 
the  woods  is  a  vacuum  in  which  the  mind  goe3 
astra}'.  It's  a  hollow  sham,  this  pantheism,  I 
Baid  ;  beins:  "  one  with  Isatui-e  "  is  all  hiunbug: 


38  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I  should  like  to  see  somebocl}'.  Man,  to  be  sure, 
is  of  veiy  little  account,  and  soon  gets  bej'ond  liis 
depth ;  but  the  society  of  the  least  hiunan  being 
is  better  than  this  gigantic  indifference.  The 
*'  rapture  on  the  lonety  shore  "  is  agreeable  only 
when  3'ou  know  3'ou  can  at  anj^  moment  go  home/( 

I  liad  now  given  up  all  expectation  of  finding 
the  road,  and  was  steering  my  way  as  well  as  I 
could  northward  towards  the  valle}^  In  my  haste  . 
I  made  slow  progress.  Probably  the  distance  I 
travelled  was  short,  and  the  time  consumed  not 
long  ;  but  I  seemed  to  be  adding  mile  to  mile,  and 
horn'  to  hour.  I  had  time  to  review  the  incidents 
of  the  Russo-Turkish  war,  and  to  forecast  the 
entire  Eastern  question  ;  I  outlined  the  characters 
of  all  my  companions  left  in  camp,  and  sketched 
in  a  sort  of  comed}^  the  S3*mpathetic  and  dispar- 
aging observations  they  would  make  on  m}'  ad- 
venture ;  I  repeated  something  like  a  thousand 
times,  without  contradiction,  "What  a  fool  3'ou 
were  to  leave  the  river  !  "  I  stopped  twenty  times, 
thinldng  I  heard  its  loud  roar,  always  deceived 
by  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops ;  I  began  to  enter 


LOST  IN   THE  WOODS.  39 

tain  serious  doubts  about  the  compass, — when 
suddenly  I  became  aware  that  I  was  no  longer  on 
level  ground :  I  was  descending  a  slope  ;  I  was 
actually  in  a  ravine.  In  a  moment  more  I  was 
in  a  brook  newl}^  formed  b}' the  rain.  "  Thanls 
Heaven  !  "  I  cried  :  "  this  I  shall  follow,  whatevc" 
conscience  or  the  compass  says."  In  this  region, 
all  streams  go,  sooner  or  later,  into  the  valley. 
This  ravine,  this  stream,  no  doubt,  led  to  the 
river.  I  splashed  and  tumbled  along  down  it  in 
mud  and  water.  Down  hill  we  went  together,  the 
fall  showing  that  I  must  have  wandered  to  high 
ground.  ^Vhen  I  guessed  that  I  must  be  close  to 
the  river,  I  suddenly  stepped  into  mud  up  to  my 
anldes.  It  was  the  road, — running,  of  com'se, 
the  wrong  wa}",  but  still  the  blessed  road.  It 
was  a  mere  canal  of  hquid  mud ;  but  man  had 
made  it,  and  it  would  take  me  home.  I  was  at 
least  three  miles  from  the  point  I  supposed  I  was 
near  at  sunset,  and  I  had  before  me  a  toilsome 
walk  of  six  or  seven  miles,  most  of  the  wa}^  in  a 
ditch  ;  but  it  is  truth  to  sa}^  that  I  enjo3'ed  every 
step  of  it.     I  was  safe  ;  I  knew  where  I  was  ;  and 


40  IN  THE   WILDERXESS. 

1  could  have  walked  till  morning.  The  mind  had 
again  got  the  upper  hand  of  the  bodj-,  and  began 
V  to  plume  itself  on  its  superiorit}' :  it  was  even 
disposed  to  doubt  whether  it  had  been  "lost" 
at  all. 


III. 


A    FIGHT    WITH    A    TROUT. 


ROUT-FISHING  in  the  Adirondacks 
would  be  a  more  attractive  pastime  than 
it  is,  but  for  the  popular  notion  of  its 
danger.  The  trout  is  a  retiring  and  harmless 
animal,  except  when  he  is  aroused,  and  forced 
into  a  combat ;  and  then  his  agilit}',  fierceness, 
and  vnidictiveness  become  apparent.  Xo  one 
who  has  studied  the  excellent  pictures  represent- 
ing men  in  an  open  boat,  exposed  to  the  assaults 
of  long,  enraged  trout  nymg  at  them  through  the 
open  ail-  with  open  mouth,  ever  ventures  with  his 
rod  upon  the  lonelj-  lakes  of  the  forest  Avithout  a 
certain  terror,  or  ever  reads  of  the  exploits  of 
daring  fishermen  without  a  feeling  of  admiration 
for  their  heroism.     Most  of  theu'  adventures  are 

41 


42  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  || 

tbjilling,  and  all  of  them  are,  in  narration,  more 
or  less  unjust  to  the  trout :  in  fact,  the  object  of 
them  seems  to  be  to  exhibit,  at  the  expense  of 
the  trout,  the  shrewdness,  the  skill,  and  the  mus- 
cular power  of  the  sportsman.  My  own  simple 
story  has  few  of  these  recommendations. 

We  had  built  our  bark  camp  one  summer,  and 
were  sta^'ing  on  one  of  the  i)opular  lakes  of  the 
Saranac  region.  It  would  be  a  ver}'  pretty  re- 
gion if  it  were  not  so  flat,  if  the  margins  of 
the  lakes  had  not  been  flooded  by  dams  at  the 
outlets,  — which  have  killed  the  trees,  and  left  a 
rim  of  ghastly  dead-wood  lilvc  the  swamps  of 
the  under- world  pictured  b}"  Dorc's  bizarre  pen- 
cil, —  and  if  the  pianos  at  the  hotels  were  in  tune. 
It  would  be  an  excellent  sporting-region  also  (for 
there  is  water  enough)  if  the  flsh  commissioners 
would  stock  the  waters*and  if  previous  hunters 
had  not  pulled  all  the  hair  and  skin  off  from  the 
X  deer's  tails.  Formerly  sportsmen  had  a  habit  of 
catching  the  deer  by  the  tails,  and  of  being 
dra";2fed  in  mere  wantonness  round  and  round 
the  shores.     It  is  well  known,  that,  if  3'ou  seize 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  43 


B  cleerb}'  this  "  holt,"  the  skin  Trill  shp  otF  hke 
the  peel  from  a  bauana.     This  reprehensible  prac- 
tice was  carried  so  far,  that  the  traveller  is  now 
hoiu'l}'  pained   b}^  the   sight   of  peeled- tail  deer      A. 
mournfull}'  sneaking  about  the  wood. 

AYe  had  been  hearing,  for  weeks,  of  a  smali 
lake  in  the  heart  of  the  \irgin  forest,  some  ten 
miles  from  our  camp,  which  was  ahve  with  trout, 
unsophisticated,  hungr}'  trout :  the  inlet  to  it  was 
described  as  stiff  with  them.  In  my  imagination 
I  saw  them  lying  there  in  ranlis  and  rows,  each 
a  foot  long,  thi'ce  tiers  deep,  a  solid  mass.  The 
lake  had  never  been  visited,  except  by  stra}' 
sable-hunters  in  the  winter,  and  was  known  as 
the  Unlvnown  Pond.  I  determined  to  explore 
it ;  fulh'  expecting,  however,  that  it  would  prove 
to  be  a  delusion,  as  such  m3^sterious  haunts  of  ^ 
the  trout  usualh'  are.  Confiding  my  purpose  to 
Luke,  we  secretly  made  our  preparations,  and 
stole  awa}'  from  the  shant}'  one  morning  at  day 
break.  Each  of  us  carried  a  l3oat,  a  pair  of  ^ 
blanlicts,  a  sack  of  bread,  pork,  and  maple- 
eugar ;  while  I  had  my  case  of  rods,  creel,  and 


44  IN-  THE  WILDERNESS. 

book  of  flies,  and  Luke  had  an  axe  and  the 
kitchen  utensils.  We  think  nothing  of  loads  of 
this  sort  in  the  woods. 

Five  miles  through  a  tamarack-swamp  brought 
us  to  the  inlet  of  Unknown  Pond,  upon  which 
we  embarked  our  fleet,  and  paddled  down  its 
vagrant  waters.  They  were  at  fii'st  sluggish, 
winding  among  triste  fir-trees,  but  gradually 
developed  a  strong  current.  At  the  end  of 
three  miles  a  loud  roar  ahead  warned  us  that 
we  were  approaching  rapids,  falls,  and  cascades. 
We  paused.  The  danger  was  unlvuown.  "We 
had  our  choice  of  shouldering  our  loads  and 
making  a  detour  through  the  woods,  or  of 
"shooting  the  rapids."  Naturally  we  chose  the 
more  dangerous  course.  Shooting  the  rapids 
has  often  been  described,  and  I  will  not  repeat 
the  description  here.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
I  drove  my  frail  bark  through  the  boihng  rapids, 
over  the  successive  water-falls,  amid  rocks  and 
vicious  eddies,  and  landed,  half  a  mile  below, 
with  whitened  hair  and  a  boat  half  full  of  water  ; 
and  that  the  guide  was  upset,  and  boat,  contents, 
and  man  were  strewn  alonf?  the  shore. 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  45 

After  this  common  experience  we  went  (luickw 
on  our  journey,  and,  a  couple  of  liours  before 
sundown,  readied  the  lalvc.  If  I  hve  to  my 
dying-da}^,  I  never  shall  forget  its  appearance. 
The  lake  is  almost  an  exact  circle,  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  in  diameter.  The  forest  about  it 
was  untouched  by  axe,  and  unkilled  by  artificial 
flooding.  The  azure  water  had  a  perfect  setting 
of  evergi-eens,  in  which  all  the  shades  of  the 
fir,  the  balsam,  the  pine,  and  the  spruce,  were 
perfectly  blended ;  and  at  intervals  on  the  shore 
in  the  emerald  rim  blazed  the  ruby  of  the  car- 
dinal-flower. It  was  at  once  evident  that  the 
unrufiled  waters  had  never  been  vexed  b}'  the 
keel  of  a  boat.  But  what  chiefly  attracted  my 
attention,  and  amused  me,  was  the  boiling  of 
the  water,  the  bubbling  and  breaking,  as  if  the 
lake  were  a  vast  kettle,  with  a  fire  underneath. 
A  tjTo  would  have  been  astonished  at  this  com- 
mon phenomenon ;  but  sportsmen  will  at  once 
understand  me  when  I  sa}^  that  the  water  boiled 
with  the  breaking  trout.  I  studied  the  surface 
for  some   time  to  see  upon  what   sort  of  flies 


13^. 


46  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

the}^  were  feeding,  in  order  to  suit  my  cast  to 
their  appetites ;  but  the}-  seemed  to  be  at  play 
rather  than  feeding,  leaping  high  in  the  air  in 
graceful  curves,  and  tumbling  about  each  other 
•^  as  we  see  them  in  the  Adirondack  pictures. 

It  is  well  known  that  no  person  who  regards 
his  reputation  will  ever  kill  a  trout  with  any 
thing  but  a  fly.  It  requires  some  training  on 
the  part  of  the  trout  to  take  to  this  method. 
,  The  uncultivated,  unsophisticated  trout  in  unfre- 
quented waters  prefers  the  bait ;  and  the  rural 
people,  whose  sole  object  in  going  a-fishing  ap- 
pears to  be  to  catch  fish,  indulge  them  in  their 
primitive  taste  for  the  worm.  No  sportsman, 
however,  will  use  an}"  thing  but  a  fl}^,  except 
he  happens  to  be  alone. 

While  Luke  launched  my  boat,  and  arranged 
his  seat  in  the  stern,  I  prepared  my  rod  and 
line.  The  rod  is  a  bamboo,  weighing  seven 
ounces,  which  has  to  be  spliced  with  a  winding 
of  sillc  thread  every  time  it  is  used.  This  is  a 
tedious  process ;  but,  by  fastening  the  joints  ir. 
this  wa}^  a  uniform  spring  h  secured  in  the  rod 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  47 

No  one  devoted  to  high  art  would  think  of  using 
a  socket  joint.  My  line  was  fort}'  3-ards  of  un- 
twisted silk  upon  a  multipl3ing  reel.  The  "lead- 
er "  (I  am  very  particular  about  my  leaders) 
had  l)een  made  to  order  from  a  domestic  animal 
witli  which  I  had  been  acquainted.  The  fisher- 
man requu-es  as  good  a  catgut  as  the  \'iohnist.  ' 
The  interior  of  the  house-cat,  it  is  well  known, 
is  exceedingly  sensitive  ;  but  it  may  not  be  so 
well  known  that  the  reason  why  some  cats  leave 
the  room  in  distress  when  a  piano-forte  is  plaj'ed 
is  because  the  two  instruments  are  not  in  the 
same  ke}',  and  the  vibrations  of  the  chords  of  the 
one  are  in  discord  with  the  catgut  of  the  other. 
On  six  feet  of  this  superior  article  I  fixed  tlii'ee 
artificial  files,  —  a  simi)le  brown  hackle,  a  gray 
bod}^  with  scarlet  wings,  and  one  of  my  own 
invention,  which  I  thought  would  be  new  to  the 
most  experienced  fly-catcher.  The  trout-fly  does 
not  resemble  any  known  species  of  insect.  It 
is  a  "conventionalized"  creation,  as  we  sa}^  ofv 
ornamentation.  The  theorj^  is,  that,  fl3'-fishing 
being  a  high  art,  the  fly  must  not  be   a  tame 

c 


'n 

48  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


o^    ct^-Mj^ 


f 


imitation  of  nature,  but  an  artistic  suggestion  of 
\  it.  It  requii'es  an  artist  to  construct  one ;  and 
not  ever}^  bungler  can  take  a  bit  of  red  flannel, 
a  peacock's  feather,  a  flash  of  tinsel  thread,  a 
cock's  x)lume,  a  section  of  a  hen's  wing,  and 
fabricate  a  tiny  object  that  will  not  look  like 
an}^  fly,  but  still  will  suggest  the  universal  con- 
ventional fly. 

I  took  my  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  tipsy 
boat ;  and  Luke  shoved  off",  and  slowly  paddled 
towards  some  lily-pads,  while  I  began  casting, 
unlimbering  my  tools,  as  it  were.  The  fish  had 
all  disappeared.  I  got  out,  i^erhaps,  fifty  feet 
of  line,  with  no  response,  and  gradually  in- 
creased it  to  one  hundred.  It  is  not  diflicult  to 
learn  to  cast ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  learn  not  to 
snap  off"  the  flies  at  every  throw.  Of  this,  how- 
ever, we  will  not  speak.  I  continued  casting  for 
some  moments,  until  I  became  satisfied  that 
/there  had  been  a  miscalculation.  Either  tho 
trout  were  too  green  to  know  what  I  was  at,  or 
they  were  dissatisfied  with  my  oflTcrs.  I  reeled 
^n,  and  changed  the  flies  (that  is,  the  fly  that  was 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  43 

not  snapped  off).  After  stuch'ing  the  color  of 
the  sk}',  of  the  water,  and  of  the  fohage,  and  the 
moderated  light  of  the  afternoon,  I  put  on  a 
series  of  beguilers,  all  of  a  subdued  brillianc}', 
in  harmony  with  the  approach  of  CA^ening.  At 
the  second  cast,  which  was  a  short  one,  I  saw  a 
splash  where  the  leader  fell,  and  gave  an  excited 
jerk.  The  next  instant  I  perceived  the  game, '^^, v. 
and  did  not  need  the  unfeigned  "  dam  "  of  Lulvc  j? 
to  convince  me  that  I  had  snatched  his  felt  hat  .5^ 
from  his  head,  and  deposited  it  among  the  lilies. 
Discom-aged  b}'  this,  we  whirled  about,  and  pad- 
dled over  to  the  inlet,  where  a  little  ripple  was 
visible  in  the  tinted  light.  At  the  very  fii'st  cast 
I  saw  that  the  horn'  had  come.  Three  trout 
leaped  into  the  air.  The  danger  of  this  ma- 
noeuATe  all  fishermen  understand.  It  is  one  of 
the  commonest  in  the  woods  :  three  heavy  trout 
taking  hold  at  once,  rushing  in  difi'erent  direc- 
tions, smash  the  tackle  into  flinders.  I  evaded 
this  catch,  and  threw  again.  I  recall  the  mo- 
ment. A  hermit  thrush,  on  the  tip  of  a  balsam, 
uttered  his  long,  liquid,  evening  note.     Happen- 


50  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

ing  to  look  over  m}^  shoulder,  I  saw  the  peak  of 
Marcy  gleam  ros}'  in  the  sky  (I  can't  help  it  that 
Marc}'  is  fifty  miles  off,  and  cannot  be  seen  from 
this  region :  these  incidental  touches  are  alwaj^s 
used) .  The  hundred  feet  of  silk  swished  through 
the  ah',  and  the  tail-fly  fell  as  lightly  on  the  water 
as  a  three-cent-piece  (which  no  slamming  will 
give  the  weight  of  a  ten)  drops  upon  the  contri- 
bution-plate. Instantly  there  was  a  rush,  a 
swirl.  I  struck,  and  "  Got  him,  by —  ! "  Never 
mind  what  Luke  said  I  got  him  by.  "  Out  on  a 
fljM  "  continued  that  u'reverent  guide  ;  but  I  told 
him  to  back  water,  and  make  for  the  centre  of 
the  lake.  The  trout,  as  soon  as  he  felt  the  prick 
of  the  hook,  was  off  lilvc  a  shot,  and  took  out 
the  whole  of  the  line  with  a  rapidity  that  made 
it  smoke.  *'  Give  him  the  butt !  "  shouted  Luke. 
It  is  the  usual  remark  in  such  an  emergency.  I 
gave  him  the  butt ;  and,  recognizing  the  fact  and 
m}^  spirit,  the  trout  at  once  sank  to  the  bottom, 
and  sullvcd.  It  is  the  most  dangerous  mood  of  a 
trout ;  for  you  cannot  tell  what  he  will  do  next. 
We  reeled  up  a  little,  and  waited  five  minutes  foi 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A  TROUT.  51 

him  to  reflect.  A  tightening  of  the  line  enraged 
him,  and  he  soon  developed  his  tactics.  Coining 
to  the  sm-face,  he  made  straight  for  the  boat 
faster  than  I  could  reel  in,  and  evidentl}'  with 
hostile  intentions.  "  Look  out  for  him  !  "  cried 
Luke  as  he  came  flying  in  the  au\  I  evaded 
him  by  dropping  flat  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat ; 
and,  when  I  picked  my  traps  up,  he  was  spinning 
across  the  lake  as  if  he  had  a  new  idea :  but  the 
line  was  still  fast.  He  did  not  run  far.  I  gave 
him  the  butt  again  ;  a  thing  he  seemed  to  hate, 
even  as  a  gift.  In  a  moment  the  evil-minded 
fish,  lashing  the  water  in  his  rage,  was  coming 
back  again,  making  straight  for  the  boat  as 
before.  Luke,  who  was  used  to  these  en- 
counters, having  read  of  tliem  in  the  writings  of 
travellers  he  had  accompanied,  raised  his  paddle 
in  self-defence.  The  trout  left  the  water  about 
ten  feet  from  the  boat,  and  came  directl}'  at  mo 
with  fiery  eyes,  his  speckled  sides  flashing  like  a 
meteor.  I  dodged  as  he  whisked  by  with  a 
vicious  slap  of  his  bifurcated  tail,  and  nearly 
upset  the  boat.     The  Une  was  of  course  slack ; 


52  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

and  the  danger  was  that  he  would  entangle  it 
about  me,  and  carry  awa}^  a  leg.  This  was  evi- 
dentty  his  game  ;  but  I  untangled  it,  and  Duly 
lost  a  Lreast-button  or  two  b}"  the  swiftl^'-moving 
string .  The  trout  plunged  into  the  water  with  i 
hissing  sound,  and  went  away  again  with  all  the 
line  on  the  reel.  More  butt ;  more  indignation 
on  the  part  of  the  captive.  The  contest  had  now 
been  going  on  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  was  get- 
ting exhausted.  We  had  been  back  and  forth 
across  the  lake,  and  round  and  round  the  lake. 
What  I  feared  was,  that  the  trout  would  start  up 
the  inlet,  and  wreck  us  in  the  bushes.  But  he 
had  a  new  fanc}",  and  began  the  execution  of  a 
manoeuvre  which  I  had  never  read  of.  Instead 
of  coming  straight  towards  me,  he  took  a  large 
circle,  swimming  rapidl}^  and  gradually  contract- 
ing his  orbit.  I  reeled  in,  and  kept  m^^  eye  on 
him.  Round  and  round  he  went,  narrowing  his 
circle.  I  began  to  suspect  the  game  ;  which  was, 
to  twist  my  head  off.  AVhen  he  had  reduced  tlio 
radius  of  his  circle  to  about  twenty-five  feet,  he 
struck  a  tremendous  pace  through  the  water.     It 


I 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  53 

would  be  false  modesty  in  a  sportsman  to  say 
that  I  was  not  equal  to  the  occasion.  Instead  of 
tm-ning  round  with  him,  as  he  expected,  I  stepped 
to  the  bow,  braced  mj'self,  and  let  the  boat 
swing.  Round  went  the  fish,  and  round  we  went 
like  a  top.  I  saw  a  line  of  Mount  Marcys  all 
round  the  horizon;  the  rosy  tint  in  the  west 
made  a  broad  band  of  pink  along  the  sky  above 
the  tree-tops ;  the  evening  star  was  a  perfect 
circle  of  light,  a  hoop  of  gold  in  the  heavens. 
We  whiiied  and  reeled,  and  reeled  and  whirled. 
I  was  wiUing  to  give  the  mahcious  beast  butt  and 
line,  and  all,  if  he  would  only  go  the  other  way 
for  a  change. 

When  I  came  to  mj^self,  Luke  was  gaflSng  the 
trout  at  the  boat- side.  After  we  had  got  him  in, 
and  di'essed  him,  he  weighed  three-quarters  of  a 
pound.  Fish  alwa^^s  lose  by  being  "  got  in  and 
dressed."  It  is  best  to  weigh  them  while  they 
are  in  the  water.  The  only  reaUy  large  one  I 
ev3r  caught  got  away  with  my  leader  when  I  first 
struck  him.     He  weighed  ten  pounds. 


J 


IV. 


A-HUNTING    OF   THE    DEER. 


|F  civilization  owes  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
the  self-sacrificing  sportsmen  who  have 
cleared  the  Adirondack  regions  of  cata- 
mounts and  savage  trout,  what  shall  be  said  of 
the  arm}'  which  has  so  nobl}-  relieved  them  of  the 
terror  of  the  deer?  The  deer-slayers  have  some- 
what celebrated  their  exploits  in  print ;  but  I 
think  that  justice  has  never  been  done  them. 

The  American  deer  in  the  wilderness,  left  to 
himself,  leads  a  comparatively  harmless  but 
rather  stupid  life,  with  only  such  excitement  as 
his  own  timid  fancy  raises.  It  was  vcr}'  seldom 
that  one  of  his  tribe  was  c.ten  by  the  North- 
American  tiger.  For  a  wild  animal  he  is  very 
domestic,    simple   in   his   tastes,    regular   in   his 

64 


A-HUNTIKG  OF  THE  DEER.  55 

habits,  affectionate  in  his  family.  Unfortunately 
for  his  repose,  his  haunch  is  as  tender  as  his 
heart.  Of  all  wild  creatures  he  is  one  of  the  most 
graceful  in  action,  and  he  poses  with  the  skill 
of  an  experienced  model.  I  have  seen  the  goats 
on  Mount  Pentelicus  scatter  at  the  approach  of 
a  stranger,  climb  to  the  sharp  points  of  pro- 
jecting rocks,  and^  attitudinize  in  the  most  self- 
conscious  manner,  strilving  at  once  those  pictur- 
esque postures  against  the  sky  with  which  Oriental 
pictures  have  made  us  and  them  famihar.  But 
the  whole  proceeding  was  theatrical.  Greece  is 
the  home  of  art,  and  it  is  rare  to  find  an}"  thing 
there  natural  and  unstudied.  I  presume  that 
these  goats  have  no  nonsense  about  them  when 
the}"  are  alone  with  the  goat-herds,  any  more  than 
the  goat-herds  have,  except  when  they  come  to 
pose  in  the  studio  ;  but  the  long  ages  of  culture, 
the  presence  always  to  the  eye  of  the  best  models 
ar.d  ^he  forms  of  immortal  beauty,  the  heroic 
friezes  of  the  Temple  of  Theseus,  the  marble  pro- 
cessions of  sacrificial  animals,  have  had  a  steady 
moulding,  educating  influence  equal  to  a  society 


56  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

of  decorative  art  upon  the  people  and  the  animals 
who  have  dwelt  in  this  artistic  atmosphere.  The 
Attic  goat  has  become  an  artificially  artistic 
being ;  though  of  course  he  is  not  now  what  he 
was,  as  a  poser,  in  the  daj^s  of  Polj'cletus.  There 
is  opportunity  for  a  ver}^  instructive  essay  by  Mr, 
E.  A.  Freeman  on  the  decadence  of  the  Attic 
goat  under  the  influence  of  the  Ottoman  Turk^ 

The  American  deer,  in  the  free  atmosphere  of 
our  countr}",  and  as  j'ct  untouched  by  our  deco- 
rative art,  is  without  self-consciousness,  and  all 
his  attitudes  are  free  and  unstudied.  The  favor- 
ite position  of  the  deer  —  his  fore-feet  in  the 
shallow  margin  of  the  lake,  among  the  lily-pads, 
his  antlers  thrown  back  and  his  nose  in  the  air  at 
the  moment  he  hears  the  stealth}^  breaking  of  a 
twig  in  the  forest  —  is  still  spirited  and  graceful, 
and  wholly  unaffected  by  the  pictures  of  him 
wliicli  the  artists  have  put  upon  canvas. 

Wherever  3'ou  go  in  the  ^Northern  forest,  3^ou 
will  find  dcer-patlis.  So  plainty  marked  and 
well-trodden  are  thej-,  that  it  is  eas}^  to  mistake 
them  for  trails  made  b}^  hunters  ;  but  he  who 


A-nUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  bl 

follows  one  of  them  is  soon  in  cL'fficulties.  lie 
may  find  himself  climbing  thi'ongh  cedar-thickets 
an  almost  inaccessible  chff,  or  immersed  in  the 
intricacies  of  a  marsh.  The  "run,"  in  one  di- 
rection, will  lead  to  water ;  but,  in  the  other,  it 
climbs  the  highest  hills,  to  which  the  deer  retires, 
for  safety  and  repose,  in  impenetrable  thickets 
The  hunters,  in  winter,  find  them  congregated  in 
"  3'ards,"  where  they  can  be  surrounded  and  shot 
as  easily  as  om'  troops  shoot  Comanche  women 
and  children  in  thek  winter  ^illages.  These 
httle  paths  are  full  of  pit-falls  among  the  roots 
and  stones  ;  and,  nimble  as  the  deer  is,  he  some- 
times breaks  one  of  his  slender  legs  in  them. 
Yet  he  knows  how  to  treat  himself  without  a 
surgeon.  I  knew  of  a  tame  deer  in  a  settlement 
in  the  edge  of  the  forest  who  had  the  misfortune 
to  break  her  leg.  She  immediately  disappeared 
with  a  delicacy  rare  in  an  invalid,  and  was  not 
seen  for  two  weeks.  Her  friends  had  given  her 
up,  supposing  that  she  had  dragged  herself  away 
into  the  depths  of  the  woods,  and  died  of  starva- 
tion;   when    one    day   she    returned,    cured    of 


58  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

lameness,  but  thin  as  a  virgin  shadow.  She  had 
the  sense  to  shun  the  doctor  ;  to  lie  down  in  some 
safe  place,  and  patiently  wait  for  her  leg  to  heal. 
I  have  observed  in  many  of  the  more  refined 
animals  this  sort  of  shj'ness,  and  reluctance  to 
give  trouble,  which  excite  our  admiration  when 
noticed  in  mankind. 

The  deer  is  called  a  timid  animal,  and  taunted 
with  i)Ossessing  courage  only  when  he  is  "  at 
ba}' ; ' '  the  stag  will  fight  when  he  can  no  longer 
flee ;  and  the  doe  will  defend  her  3'oung  in  the 
face  of  murderous  enemies.  The  deer  gets  httle 
credit  for  this  eleventh-hour  bravery.  But  I 
think,  that,  in  any  truly  Christian  condition  of 
societ}",  the  deer  would  not  be  conspicuous  for 
cowardice.  *  I  suppose  that  if  the  American  girl, 
even  as  she  is  described  in  foreign  romances, 
were  pursued  by  bull-dogs,  and  fired  at  from 
behind  fences  every  time  she  ventured  out- 
doors, she  would  become  timid,  and  reluctant  to 
go  abroad.  When  that  golden  era  comes  which 
the  poets  think  is  behind  us,  and  the  prophets  de 
clai'c  is  about  to  be  ushered  in  by  the  opening  of 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  LEER.  59 

the  "vials,"  and  the  IdUing  of  evciTbocl^y  who  does 
not  beUeve  as  those  nations  beheve  which  have 
the  most  cannon ;  when  we  all  live  in  real  con- 
cord,—  perhaps  the  gentle-hearted  deer  will  be 
respected,  and  will  find  that  men  are  not  more 
savage  to  the  weak  than  are  the  congars  and 
panthers.  If  the  little  spotted  fawn  can  think, 
it  must  seem  to  her  a  queer  world  in  which  the 
advent  of  innocence  is  hailed  by  the  bajing  of 
fierce  hounds  and  the  "  ping  "  of  the  rifle. 

Hunting  the  deer  in  the  Adirondacks  is  con- 
ducted in  the  most  manly  fashion.  There  are 
several  methods,  and  in  none  of  them  is  a  fair 
chance  to  the  deer  considered.  A  favorite  meth- 
od with  the  natives  is  practised  in  winter,  an.l 
is  called  b}'  them  "  still  hunting."  My  idea  of 
still  hunting  is  for  one  man  to  go  alone  into  the 
forest,  look  about  for  a  deer,  put  his  wits  fau'ly 
against  the  wits  of  the  keen-scented  animal,  and 
kill  his  deer,  or  get  lost  in  the  attempt.  There 
seems  to  be  a  sort  of  fairness  about  this.  It  is 
private  assassination,  tempered  with  a  Uttle  un- 
certainty about  finding  j'our  man.     The  stiU  hunt- 


60  IN  THE  WILDERNESS, 

iDg  of  the  natives  has  all  the  romance  and  clangei 
attendmg  the  slaughter  of  sheep  in  an  abattoir. 
As  the  snow  gets  deep,  many  deer  congregate 
in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and  keep  a  place 
trodden  down,  which  grows  larger  as  the}' 
tramp  down  the  snow  in  search  of  food.  In 
time  this  refuge  becomes  a  sort  of  "j^ard," 
surrounded  b}^  unbroken  snow-banlis.  The  hunt- 
ers then  make  their  way  to  this  retreat  on  snow- 
shoes,  and  from  the  top  of  the  banl\:s  pick  off 
the  deer  at  leisure  with  their  rifles,  and  haul 
them  awa}^  to  market,  until  the  enclosm'e  is  pretty 
much  emptied.  This  is  one  of  the  surest  methods 
of  extei-minating  the  deer ;  it  is  also  one  of  the 
most  merciful ;  and,  being  the  plan  adopted  by 
our  government  for  civilizing  the  Indian,  it  ought 
to  be  popular.  The  onl}^  people  who  object  to  it 
are  the  summer  sportsmen.  They  naturally  want 
some  pleasure  out  of  the  death  of  the  deer. 

Some  of  our  best  sportsmen,  who  desire  to 
protract  the  pleasure  of  slaving  deer  through  as 
many  seasons  as  possible,  object  to  the  practico 
©f  the  hunters,  who  make  it  their  chief  business 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  CI 

to  slaughter  as  many  cleer  in  a  campinp;-sea5on  as 
the}'  can.  Their  own  rule,  they  say,  i;  to  kill  a 
deer  only  when  they  need  venison  to  eat.  Their 
excuse  is  specious.  What  right  have  these  soph- 
ists to  put  themselves  into  a  desert  place,  out 
of  the  reach  of  provisions,  and  then  ground  a 
right  to  slay  deer  on  theii'  own  impro\idence  ? 
If  it  is  necessary  for  these  people  to  have  any 
thing  to  eat,  which  I  doubt,  it  is  not  necessary 
that  they  should  have  the  luxury  of  venison. 

One  of  the  most  picturesque  methods  of  hunt- 
ing the  poor  deer  is  called  "floating."  The 
person,  with  murder  in  his  heart,  chooses  a 
cloudy  night,  seats  himself,  rifle  in  hand,  in  a 
canoe,  which  is  noiselessly  paddled  by  the  guide, 
and  explores  the  shore  of  the  lake  or  the  dark 
inlet.  In  the  bow  of  the  boat  is  a  light  in  a 
"jack,"  the  rays  of  which  are  shielded  from  the 
boat  and  its  occupants.  A  deer  comes  down  to 
feed  upon  the  lilj'-pads.  The  boat  approaches 
him.  He  looks  up,  and  stands  a  moment,  terri- 
fied or  fascinated  by  the  bright  flames.  In  that 
moment  the  sportsman  is  supposed  to  shoot  the 


62  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

deer.  As  an  historical  fact,  Ms  hand  usually 
shakes,  so  that  he  misses  the  animal,  or  only 
wounds  him ;  and  the  stag  Hmps  away  to  die 
after  days  of  suffering.  Usually,  however,  the 
hunters  remain  out  all  night,  get  stiff  from  cold 
and  the  cramped  position  in  the  boat,  and,  when 
they  return  in  the  morning  to  camp,  cloud  their 
future  existence  by  the  assertion  that  thej^ "  heard 
a  big  buck"  moving  along  the  shore,  but  the 
people  in  camp  made  so  much  noise  that  he  was 
frightened  off. 

By  all  odds,  the  favorite  and  prevalent  mode 
is  hunting  with  dogs.  The  dogs  do  the  hunting, 
the  men  the  kilUng.  The  hounds  are  sent  into 
the  forest  to  rouse  the  deer,  and  drive  him  from 
his  cover.  They  climb  the  mountains,  strilvc  the 
trails,  and  go  ba3'ing  and  yelping  on  the  track 
of  the  poor  beast.  The  deer  have  their  estab- 
liihcd  run-wa3's,  as  I  said;  and,  when  they  are 
disturbed  in  their  retreat,  they  are  certain  to 
attempt  to  escape  by  following  one  which  in- 
variably leads  to  some  lake  or  stream.  All  that 
the  hunter  has  to  do  is  to  seat  himself  by  one  of 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  63 

these  run-ways,  or  sit  in  a  boat  on  the  lake,  and 
wait  the  coming  of  tlie  pursued  deer.  The 
frightened  beast,  fleeing  from  the  unreasoning 
brutahty  of  the  hounds,  will  often  seek  the  open 
country,  with  a  mistaken  confidence  in  th(5  hu- 
manity of  man.  To  kill  a  deer  when  he  suddenly 
passes  one  on  a  run-waj^  demands  presence  of 
mind,  and  quickness  of  aim :  to  shoot  him  from 
the  boat,  after  he  has  plunged  panting  into  the 
lake,  requires  the  rare  abihty  to  hit  a  moving 
object  the  size  of  a  deer's  head  a  few  rods  dis- 
tant. Either  exploit  is  sufficient  to  make  a  hero 
of  a  common  man.  To  paddle  up  to  the  swim- 
ming deer,  and  cut  his  thi'oat,  is  a  sm-e  means 
of  getting  venison,- and  has  its  charms  for  some. 
Even  women,  and  doctors  of  divinity,  have  en- 
joyed this  exquisite  pleasure.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  we  are  so  constituted  by  a  wise  Creator  as  to 
feel  a  dehght  in  killing  a  wild  animal  which  we 
do  not  experience  in  killing  a  tame  one. 

The  pleasurable  excitement  of  a  deer-hunt  has 
never,  I  believe,  been  regarded  from  the  deer's 
point  of  view.      I  happen  to  be  in  a  position 


64  m  THE  WILDERXESS. 

hy  reason  of  a  luck}^  Adirondack  experience,  to 
present  it  in  that  light.  I  am  sony  if  this  intro- 
duction to  m}'  little  stoij  has  seemed  long  to  the 
reader :  it  is  too  late  now^to  skip  it ;  but  he  can 
recoup  himself  b}^  omitting  the  stor}'. 

Earl}'  on  the  morning  of  the  23d  of  August, 
1877,  a  doe  was  feeding  on  Basin  Mountain. 
The  night  had  been  warm  and  shower}^,  and  the 
morning  opened  in  an  undecided  way.  The 
wind  was  southerl}^ ;  it  is  what  the  deer  call  a 
dog- wind,  having  come  to  know  quite  well  the 
meaning  of  "a  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy 
sk}'."  The  sole  companion  of  the  doe  was  her 
onl}'  child,  a  cliarming  little  fawn,  whose  brown 
coat  was  just  beginning  to  be  mottled  with  the 
beautiful  spots  which  make  this  young  creature 
as  lovely-  as  the  gazelle.  The  buck,  its  father, 
had  been  that  nighl  on  a  long  tramp  across  the 
mountain  to  Clear  Pond,  and  had  not  yet  r(!- 
turned  :  lie  went  ostensibl}'  to  feed  on  the  suc- 
culent lily-pads  there.  "  lie  feedeth  aipong  tne 
Ulies  until  the  da^'  break  and  the  shadows  floe 
av\a3-,  and  he  should  be  lierc  by  this. hour;  but 


A-nUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  65 

he  cometli  not,'*  she  said,  "leaping  upon  the 
mountains,  skipping  upon  the  hills. ' '  Clear  Pond 
was  too  far  off  for  the  3'oiing  mother  to  go  with 
her  fawn  for  a  night's  pleasure.  It  was  a  fashion- 
able watering-place  at  this  season  among  the 
deer ;  and  the  doe  ma}^  have  remembered,  not 
without  uneasiness,  the  moonlight  meetings  of  a 
frivolous  society  there.  But  the  buck  did  not 
come  :  he  was  ver}^  likely  sleeping  under  one  of 
the  ledges  on  Tight  Nipi:)in.  Was  he  alone  ?  "I 
charge  3'ou,  b}^  the  roes  and  hj  the  hinds  of  the 
field,  that  3'e  stu'  not  nor  awake  my  love  till  he 
please." 

The  doe  was  feeding,  daintily  cropping  the 
tender  leaves  of  the  3'oung  shoots,  and  turning 
from  time  to  time  to  regard  her  offspring.  The 
fawn  had  taken  his  morning  meal,  and  now  lay 
curled  up  on  a  bed  of  moss,  watching  contented- 
I3',  with  his  large,  soft  brown  eyes,  every  move- 
ment of  his  mother.  The  great  e^'es  followed 
her  with  an  alert  entreaty ;  and,  if  the  mother 
stepped  a  pace  or  two  farther  awa}"  in  feeding, 
the  fawn  made  a  half-movement,  as  if  to  rise  and 


66  IJ^  THE  WILDEBKESS. 

follow  her.  You  see,  she  was  his  sole  depend- 
ence in  all  the  world.  But  he  was  quickl}'  re-as- 
sured when  she  turned  her  gaze  on  him ;  and  if, 
in  alarm,  he  uttered  a  plaintive  ay,  she  bounded 
to  him  at  once,  and,  with  every  demonstration  of 
affection,  licked  his  mottled  skin  till  it  shone 
again. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  —  maternal  love  on  the 
one  part,  and  happ}'  trust  on  the  other.  The 
doe  was  a  beauty,  and  would  have  been  so  con- 
sidered anj-where,  as  graceful  and  winning  a 
creatiu-e  as  the  sun  that  da}^  shone  on,  —  slender 
limbs,  not  too  heavy  flanlvs,  round  bod}^,  and 
aristocratic  head,  with  small  ears,  and  luminous, 
intelligent,  affectionate  ej^es.  How  alert,  supple, 
free,  she  was !  What  untaught  grace  in  every 
movement!  Wliat  a  charming  i^ose  when  she 
lifted  her  head,  and  turned  it  to  regard  her  cliild  ! 
You  would  have  had  a  companion-picture,  if  you 
had  seen,  as  I  saw  that  morning,  a  bab}^  kicking 
about  among  the  dry  pine-needles  on  a  ledge 
above  the  Ausablc,  in  the  valley  below,  while  its 
voung  mother  sat  near,  with  an  easel  before  luir, 


A'UUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  67 

touching  in  the  color  of  a  rekictant  landscape, 
giving  a  quick  look  at  the  sk}^  and  the  outline  of 
the  Twin  Mountains,  and  bestowing  every  third 
glance  upon  the  laughing  boy,  —  art  in  its  in- 
fancy. 

The  doe  lifted  her  head  a  httle  with  a  quick 
motion,  and  turned  her  ear  to  the  south.  Had 
she  heard  something  ?  Probabty  it  was  only  the 
south  wind  in  the  balsams.  There  was  silence 
all  about  in  the  forest.  If  the  doe  had  heard 
an}"  thing,  it  was  one  of  the  distant  noises  of  the 
world.  There  are  in  the  woods  occasional  moan- 
ings,  premonitions  of  change,  which  are  inaudi- 
ble to  the  dull  ears  of  men,  but  which,  I  have  no 
doubt,  the  forest-folk  hear  and  understand.  If 
the  doe's  suspicions  were  excited  for  an  instant, 
\h.Qj  were  gone  as  soon.  With  an  affectionate 
glance  at  her  fawn,  she  continued  picking  up  her 
breakfast. 

But  suddenly  she  started,  head  erect,  eyes 
dilated,  a  tremor  in  her  Umbs.  She  took  a  step  ; 
she  tui'ned  her  head  to  the  south ;  she  listened 
intently.     There  was  a  sound,  —  a  distant,  pro- 


I2V  THE  WILDERNESS. 


longed  note,  bell-toned,  pervading  the  woods,  sliak 
ing  the  air  in  smooth  vibrations.  It  was  repeated. 
The  doe  had  no  doubt  now.  She  shook  lilce  the 
sensitive  mimosa  when  a  footstep  approaches. 
It  was  the  baj-ing  of  a  hound  !  It  was  far  off,  — 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Time  enough  to 
fl}^ ;  time  enough  to  put  miles  between  her  and 
the  hound,  before  he  should  come  upon  her  fresh 
trail ;  time  enough  to  escape  away  through  the 
dense  forest,  and  hide  in  the  recesses  of  Panther 
Gorge ;  j^es,  time  enough.  But  there  was  the 
fawn.  The  cr}^  of  the  hound  was  repeated,  more 
distinct  this  time.  The  mother  instinctively 
bounded  away  a  few  paces.  The  fawn  started 
up  with  an  anxious  bleat :  the  doe  turned ;  she 
came  back  ;  she  couldn't  leave  it.  She  bent  over 
it,  and  hcked  it,  and  seemed  to  sa}^,  "  Come, 
m}^  child  :  we  are  pursued:  we  must  go."  She 
wallvcd  away  towards  the  west,  and  the  little 
thing  skipped  after  her.  It  was  slow  going  for 
the  slender  legs,  over  the  fallen  logs,  and  through 
'.ho  rasping  bushes.  The  doe  bounded  in  ad- 
vance, and  waited  :  the  fawn  scrambled  after  her 


A-HUNTIXG  OF  THE  DEER.  69 

slipping  and  tumbling  along,  vciy  groggy  jxt  on 
its  legs,  and  -u-biiiiDg  a  good  deal  because  its 
mother  kept  alwaj-s  moving  away  from  it.  The 
fawn  evidenth'  did  not  hear  the  hound  :  the  little 
innocent  would  even  have  looked  sweetl}'  at 
the  dog,  and  tried  to  make  friends  with  it,  if  the 
brute  had  been  rushing  upon  him,  B3'  all  the 
means  at  her  command  the  doe  urged  her  3'oung 
one  on  ;  but  it  was  slow  work.  She  might  have 
been  a  mile  awaj^  wliile  the}'  were  making  a  few 
rods.  "Whenever  the  fawn  caught  up,  he  was 
quite  content  to  frisk  about.  lie  wanted  more 
breakfast,  for  one  thing  ;  and  his  mother  wouldn't 
stand  still.  She  moved  on  continually  ;  and  his 
weak  legs  were  tangled  in  the  roots  of  the  narrow 
deer-path. 

Shortl}'  came  a  sound  that  threw  the  doe  into 
a  panic  of  terror,  —  a  short,  sharp  yelp,  followed 
b}'  a  prolonged  howl,  caught  up  and  re-echoed  b}' 
other  lia^'ings  along  the  mountain-side.  The  doe 
knevA-  what  that  meant.  One  hound  had  caught 
her  trail,  and  the  whole  pack  responded  to  the 
"view-halloo."     The  dancjer  was   certain  now: 


70  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

it  was  near.  She  could  not  crawl  on  in  this 
way :  the  clogs  would  soon  be  upon  them.  She 
turned  again  for  flight :  the  fawn,  scrambling 
after  her,  tumbled  OA*er,  and  bleated  piteously. 
The  baying,  emphasized  now  by  the  3'elp  of  cer- 
taint}^,  came  nearer.  Flight  with  the  fawn  was 
impossible.  The  doe  retm^ned  and  stood  by  it, 
head  erect,  and  nostrils  distended.  She  stood 
perfectly  still,  but  trembling.  Perhaps  she  was 
thinking.  The  fawn  took  advantage  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  began  to  di-aw  his  luncheon  ration. 
The  doe  seemed  to  have  made  up  her  mind.  She 
let  him  finish.  The  fawn,  having  taken  all  he 
wanted,  lay  down  contented^,  and  the  doe  licked 
him  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  the  swiftness  of 
a  bird,  she  dashed  awa}^,  and  in  a  moment  was 
lost  in  the  forest.  She  went  in  the  du-ection  of 
the  hounds. 

According  to  all  human  calculations,  she  was 
going  into  the  jaws  of  death.  So  she  was:  all 
human  calculations  are  selfish.  She  kept  straight 
on,  hearing  the  baj^ing  every  moment  mor(3  dis- 
tinctly.    She  descended  the  sloj^e  of  the  moun- 


A-EXfNTIKG  OF  THE  DEER.  71 

tain  until  she  reached  the  more  open  forest  of 
hard- wood.  It  was  freer  going  here,  and  thfj 
cr}'  of  the  pack  echoed  more  resounding!}^  in  the 
gi'eat  spaces.  She  was  going  due  east,  wlien 
(judging  by  the  sound,  the  hounds  were  not  far 
off,  though  they  were  still  hidden  by  a  ridge)  she 
tinned  short  away  to  the  north,  and  kept  on  at  a 
good  pace.  In  five  minutes  more  she  heard  the 
sharp,  exultant  yelp  of  discovery,  and  then  the 
deep-mouthed  howl  of  pursuit.  The  hounds  had 
struck  her  trail  where  she  tm-ned,  and  the  fawn 
was  safe. 

The  doe  was  in  good  running  condition,  the 
ground  was  not  bad,  and  she  felt  the  exhilaration 
of  the  chase.  For  the  moment,  fear  left  her,  and 
she  bounded  on  with  the  exaltation  of  triumph. 
For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  went  on  at  a  slap- 
ping pace,  clearing  the  moose-bushes  with  bound 
after  bound,  flying  over  the  fallen  logs,  pausing 
neither  for  brook  nor  ra-s^ine.  The  baj'ing  of  the 
hounds  grew  fainter  behind  her.  But  she  struck 
a  bad  piece  of  going,  a  dead-wood  slash.  It  was 
inarvellous  to  see  her? skim  over  it,  leaping  among 


m  THE  WILDERXESS. 


its  intricacies,  and  not  breaking  her  slender  logs. 
ISTo  other  living  animal  could  do  it.  But  it  wag 
killing  work.  She  began  to  pant  fearfull}' ;  she 
lost  ground.  The  baling  of  the  hounds  was  nca:  - 
or.  She  climbed  the  hard-wood  hill  at  a  slowcj 
gait  J  but,  once  on  more  level,  free  ground,  hei' 
breath  came  back  to  her,  and  she  stretched  awaj 
T\'th  new  courage,  and  maybe  a  sort  of  contempt 
of  her  heav}^  pursuers. 

After  running  at  high  speed  perhaps  half  a  mile 
farther,  it  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  safe 
now  to  turn  to  the  west,  and,  by  a  wide  circuit, 
seek  her  fawn.  But,  at  the  moment,  she  heard  a 
sound  that  chilled  her  heart.  It  was  the  cr}"  of 
a  hound  to  the  west  of  her.  The  crafty  brute 
had  made  the  circuit  of  the  slash,  and  cut  off  her 
retreat.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  keep 
on  ;  and  on  she  went,  still  to  the  north,  with  the 
noise  of  the  pack  behind  her.  In  five  minutes 
more  she  had  passed  into  a  hillside  clearing. 
Cows  and  3'oung  steers  were  grazing  there.  She 
heard  a  tinkle  of  bells.  Below  her,  down  tho 
mountain-slope,  were  other  clearings,  broken  bT 


A-nUNTING   OF  THE  DEER.  75 

patches  of  woods.  Fences  intervened  ;  and  a  mile 
or  two  down  lay  the  valle}',  the  shining  Ansable, 
and  the  peaceful  farm-houses.  That  waj'  also  her 
hereditary  enemies  were.  Not  a  merciful  heart 
in  all  that  lovel}'  yallc}'.  She  hesitated  :  it  was 
only  for  an  instant.  She  must  cross  the  Slide- 
brook  Vallc}'  if  possible,  and  gain  the  mountain 
opposite.  She  bounded  on  ;  she  stopped.  What 
was  that?  From  the  vallc}' ahead  came  the  cry 
of  a  searching  hound.  All  the  devils  were  loose 
this  morning.  Ever}^  wa}'  was  closed  but  one, 
and  that  led  straight  down  the  mountain  to  the 
cluster  of  houses.  Conspicuous  among  them  was 
a  slender  white  wooden  spire.  The  doe  did  not 
know  that  it  was  the  spire  of  a  Christian  chapel. 
But  perhaps  she  thought  that  human  pit}'  dwelt 
there,  and  would  be  more  merciful  than  the  teetli 
of  the  hounds. 

"  The  hounds  are  baying  on  »ny  track: 
O  white  man !  wiU  you  send  me  back  ?  " 

In  a  panic,  frightened  animals  will  alwa3S  flee 
tc  human-kmd  from  the  danger  of  more  savage 


74  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

foes.  They  alwa3's  make  a  mistake  in  doing  so 
Perhaps  the  trait  is  the  survival  of  an  era  of 
peace  on  earth ;  perhaps  it  is  a  prophecy  of  the 
golden  age  of  the  future.  The  business  of  this 
age  is  murder, — the  slaughter  of  animals,  the 
slaughter  of  fellow-men,  by  the  wholesale.  Hila- 
rious poets  who  have  never  fired  a  gun  write 
hunting-songs,  —  Tl-ra-la  :  and  good  bishops 
write  war-songs,  — Ave  the  Czar! 

The  hunted  doe  went  down  the  "  open,"  clear- 
ing the  fences  splendidlj^,  fl3^ng  along  the  stony 
path.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight.  But  consider 
what  a  shot  it  was  !  If  the  deer,  now,  could  only 
have  been  caught !  No  doubt  there  were  tender- 
hearted people  in  the  valley  who  would  have 
spared  her  hfe,  shut  her  up  in  a  stable,  and 
petted  her.  Was  there  one  who  would  have  let 
her  go  back  to  her  waiting  fawn  ?  It  is  the  busi- 
ness of  civilization  to  tame  or  kill. 

The  doe  went  on.  She  left  the  saw-mill  on 
John's  Brook  to  her  right ;  she  turned  into  a 
wood-path.  As  she  approached  Slide  Brook,  she 
saw  a  boy  standing  by  a  tree  with  a  raised  rille. 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  75 

The  dogs  were  not  in  sight ;  but  she  could  hear 
them  coming  down  the  hill.  There  was  no  time 
for  hesitation.  With  a  tremendous  burst  of  speeii 
she  cleared  the  stream,  and,  as  she  touched  the 
bank,  heard  the  "  ping"  of  a  rifle-bullet  in  the 
air  above  her.  The  cruel  sound  gave  wings  to 
the  poor  thing.  In  a  moment  more  she  was  in 
the  opening :  she  leaped  into  the  travelled  road. 
Which  way  ?  Below  her  in  the  wood  was  a  load 
of  ha}' :  a  man  and  a  bo}',  with  pitchforks  in  their 
hands,  were  running  towards  her.  She  turned 
south,  and  flew  along  the  street.  The  town  was 
up.  Women  and  children  ran  to  the  doors  and 
windows ;  men  snatched  their  rifles ;  shots  were 
fired ;  at  the  big  boarding-houses,  the  sununer 
boarders,  who  never  have  any  thing  to  do,  came 
out  and  cheered';  a  camp-stool  was  thrown  from 
a  veranda.  Some  3'oung  fellows  shooting  at  a 
mark  in  the  meadow  saw  the  flj'ing  deer,  and 
popped  awa}"  at  her ;  but  they  were  accustomed 
to  a  mark  that  stood  still.  It  was  all  so  sudden  1 
There  were  twenty  people  who  were  just  going 
to   shoot  her;   when  the   doe   leaped   the   road 


76  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

fence,  and  went  away  across  a  marsh  toward  the 
foot-hills.  It  was  a  fearful  gantlet  to  run.  But 
nobodj'  except  the  deer  considered  it  in  that  Light. 
Everj'body  told  what  he  was  just  going  to  do : 
everybod}'  who  had  seen  the  performance  was  a 
kind  of  hero,  —  ever3'body  except  the  deer.  For 
daj's  and  da3's  it  was  the  subject  of  conversa^ 
tion;  and  the  summer  boarders  kept  their  guns 
at  hand,  expecting  another  deer  would  come  to 
be  shot  at. 

The  doe  went  away  to  the  foot-hills,  going  now 
slower,  and  evidently  fatigued,  if  not  frightened 
half  to  death.  Nothing  is  so  appalling  to  a  re- 
cluse as  half  a  mile  of  summer  boarders.  As 
the  deer  entered  the  thin  woods,  she  saw  a  rabble 
of  people  start  across  the  meadow  in  pursuit.  By 
this  time,  the  dogs,  panting,  and  lolling  out  their 
tongues,  came  swinging  along,  keeping  the  trail, 
like  stupids,  and  consequentlj' losing  ground  when 
the  deer  doubled.  But,  when  the  doe  had  got  into 
the  timber,  she  heard  the  savage  brutes  howling 
across  the  meadow.  (It  is  wf  11  enough,  perhaps, 
to  cay  that  nobody  offered  to  shoot  the  dogs.) 


A-nUNTlNG   OF  THE  DEER.  77 

Tlio  courage  of  the  panting  fugitive  was  not 
gone :  slic  was  game  to  the  tip  of  her  high-hrccl 
ears.  But  the  fearful  pace  at  which  she  had  just 
been  going  told  on  her.  Her  legs  trembled,  and 
her  heart  beat  like  a  trip-hammer.  She  slowed 
her  speed  perforce,  but  still  fled  industrioush'  up 
the  right  bank  of  the  stream.  When  she  had 
gone  a  couple  of  miles,  and  the  dogs  were  evi- 
dentl}"  gaining  again,  she  crossed  the  broad,  deep 
brook,  climbed  the  steep  left  bank,  and  fled  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  Mount-Marcy  trail.  The 
fording  of  the  river  threw  the  hounds  off*  for  a 
time.  She  knew,  b}^  their  uncertain  3-elping  up 
and  down  the  opposite  bank,  that  she  had  a  httle 
respite :  she  used  it,  however,  to  push  on  until 
the  b?.3ing  was  faint  in  her  ears ;  and  then  she 
dropped,  exhausted,  upon  the  gi'ound. 

This  rest,  brief  as  it  was,  saved  her  life. 
Koused  again  b}'  the  baling  pack,  she  leaped  for- 
ward with  better  speed,  though  without  that  keen 
feeling  of  exhilarating  flight  thnt  she  had  in  the 
morning.  It  was  still  a  race  for  life  ;  but  the  odds 
were  in  her  favor,  she  thought.     She  did  not  ajv 


78  IK  THE  WILDERNESS. 

predate  the  dogged  persistence  of  the  hounds,  nor 
had  any  inspiration  told  her  that  the  race  is  not  to 
the  swift.  She  was  a  httle  confused  in  her  mind 
where  to  go ;  but  an  instinct  kept  her  course 
to  the  left,  and  consequently  farther  away  from 
her  fawn.  Going  now  slower,  and  now  faster,  as 
the  pursuit  seemed  more  distant  or  nearer,  she 
kept  to  the  south-west,  crossed  the  stream  again, 
left  Panther  Gorge  on  her  right,  and  ran  on  by 
Haj'stack  and  Skylight  in  the  direction  of  the 
Upper  Ausable  Pond.  I  do  not  know  her  exact 
course  through  this  maze  of  mountains,  swamps, 
ravines,  and  frightful  wildernesses.  I  only  know 
that  the  poor  thing  worked  her  way  along  pain- 
full}^, with  sinking  heart  and  unsteady  limbs, 
Ij'ing  down  "dead  beat*'  at  intervals,  and  then 
spurred  on  by  the  cry  of  the  remorseless  dogs, 
until,  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  staggered  down 
the  shoulder  of  Bartlett,  and  stood  upon  the  shore 
of  the  lake.  If  she  could  put  that  piece  of  water 
between  her  and  her  pursuers,  she  would  be  safe. 
Had  she  strength  to  swim  it  ? 

At  her  first  step  into  the  water  she  saw  a  sighl 


^-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  70 

that  sent  her  hack  with  a  bound.  There  was  a 
boat  mid-lake :  two  men  were  in  it.  One  was 
rowing  :  the  other  had  a  gun  in  his  hand.  They 
were  looking  towards  her :  they  had  seen  her. 
(She  did  not  know  that  the}'  had  heard  the  bay- 
ing of  hounds  on  the  mountains,  and  had  been 
hing  in  wait  for  her  an  hour.)  What  should  she 
do  ?  The  hounds  were  drawing  near.  No  escape, 
that  way,  even  if  she  could  still  run.  With  only 
a  moment's  hesitation  she  plunged  into  the  lake, 
and  stiiick  obhquel}'  across.  Her  tired  legs  could 
not  propel  the  tked  body  rapidly.  She  saw  the 
boat  headed  for  her.  She  turned  toward  the  cen- 
tre of  the  lake.  The  boat  tm-ned.  She  could 
hear  the  rattle  of  the  oar-locks.  It  was  gaining 
on  her.  Then  there  was  a  silence.  Then  there 
was  a  splash  of  the  water  just  ahead  of  her,  fol- 
lowed b}"  a  roar  round  the  lake,  the  words  "  Con- 
found it  all!"  and  a  rattle  of  the  oars  again. 
The  doe  saw  the  boat  nearing  her.  She  turned 
iiTesolutely  to  the  shore  whence  she  came :  the 
dogs  were  lapping  llic  Wiiior,  and  howling  there 
Slie  turned  again  to  the  centre  of  the  lake. 


80  m  THE  WILDERNESS, 

The  brave,  pretty  creature  was  quite  exhausted 
now.  In  a  moment  more,  with  a  rush  of  water, 
the  boat  was  on  her,  and  the  man  at  the  oars  had 
leaned  over  and  caught  her  by  the  tail. 

"  Knock  her  on  the  head  with  that  paddle  ! ' ' 
he  shouted  to  the  gentleman  in  the  stern. 

The  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  with  a  kind, 
smooth- shaven  face,  Wd  might  have  been  a  min- 
ister of  some  sort  of  everlasting  gospel.  He 
took  the  paddle  in  his  hand.  Just  then  the  doe 
turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with  her 
great,  appeahng  eyes. 

*'  I  can't  do  it !  my  soul,  I  can't  do  it !  '*  and 
he  dropped  the  paddle.     "Oh,  let  her  go !  " 

"  Let  H.  go !  "  was  the  only  response  of  the 
guide  as  he  slung  the  deer  round,  whipped  out 
his  hunting-knife,  and  ma^e  a  pass  that  severed 
her  jugular. 

And  the  gentleman  ate  that  night  of  the  veni- 
son. 

The  buck  returned  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon.     The  fawn  was   bleating   piteously, 


A-HUNTIXG   OF   THE  DEER.  81 

hungT}'  and  lonesome.  The  buck  was  surprised. 
He  looked  about  in  the  forest.  He  took  a  circuit, 
and  came  back.  His  doe  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  He  looked  down  at  the  fawn  in  a  helpless 
sort  of  wa}'.  The  fawn  appealed  for  his  supper. 
The  buck  had  nothing  whatever  to  give  liis  child, 
—  nothing  but  his  s^'mpath}'.  If  he  said  any 
thing,  this  is  what  he  said  :  "  I'm  the  head  of  this 
famih' ;  but,  realh',  this  is  a  novel  case.  I've  noth- 
ing whatever  for  you.  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I've  the  feelings  of  a  father ;  but  j^ou  can't  live 
on  them.     Let  us  travel." 

The  buck  walked  away  :  the  little  one  toddled 
after  him.     They  disappeared  in  the  forest. 


A    CHARACTER    STUDY. 


HERE  has  been  a  lively  inquiry  after 
the  primeval  man.  Wanted,  a  man 
who  would  satisfy  the  conditions  of  the 
miocene  environment,  and  ^-et  would  be  good 
enough  for  an  ancestor.  AVe  are  not  particular 
about  our  ancestors,  if  they  are  sufficientl}^  re- 
mote ;  but  we  must  have  something.  Failing  to 
apprehend  the  primeval  man,  science  has  sought 
the  primitive  man  where  he  exists  as  a  survival 
in  present  savage  races.  He  is,  at  best,  only  a 
mushroom  growth  of  the  recent  period  (came  in, 
probabl}',  with  the  general  raft  of  mammalian 
fauna)  ;  but  he  possesses  3'et  some  rudimentary 
traits  that  may  be  studied. 

It  is  a  good  mental  exercise  to  try  to  fix  the 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  83 

mind  on  the  primitive  man  cli vested  of  all  the 
attributes  he  has  acquired  in  his  struggles  '^^•ith 
the  other  mammalian  fauna.  Fix  the  mind  on 
an  orange,  the  ordinary-  occupation  of  the  meta* 
phj'sician  :  take  from  it  (without  eating  it)  odor^ 
color,  weight,  form,  substance,  and  pc^l ;  then 
let  the  mind  still  dwell  on  it  as  an  orange.  The 
experiment  is  perfectly  successful ;  oul}',  at  the 
end  of  it,  3'ou  haven't  any  mind.  Better  still, 
consider  the  telephone :  take  awa}^  fi'om  it  the 
metallic  disk,  and  the  magnetized  iron,  and  the 
connecting  wu'c,  and  then  let  the  mind  nm 
abroad  on  the  telephone.  The  mind  won't  come 
back.  I  have  tried  b}^  this  sort  of  process  to  get 
a  conception  of  the  primitive  man.  I  let  the 
mind  roam  away  back  over  the  vast  geologic 
spaces,  and  sometimes  fancy  I  see  a  dim  image 
of  him  stallving  across  the  terrace  epoch  of  the 
quaternar}'  period. 

But  this  is  an  unsatisf^dng  pleasure.  The  best 
results  are  obtained  by  studying  the  primitive 
man  as  he  is  left  here  and  there  in  our  era,  a 
witness  of  what  has  been ;   and  I  hnd  him  most 


84  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

to  m}^  mind  in  the  Adirondack  sj'stem  of  what 
geologists  call  the  Champlain  epoch.  I  suppose 
the  primitive  man  is  one  who  owes  more  to 
nature  than  to  the  forces  of  civilization.  What 
we  seek  in  him  are  the  primal  and  original  traits, 
unmixed  with  the  sophistications  of  society,  and 
unimpaired  by  the  refinements  of  an  artificial 
culture.  He  would  retain  the  primitive  instincts, 
which  are  cultivated  out  of  the  ordinar}' ,  com- 
monplace man.  I  should  expect  to  find  him,  by 
reason  of  an  unrelinquished  kinship,  enjoying  a 
Bpecial  conununion  with  nature,  —  admitted  to 
its  mj'steries,  understanding  its  moods,  and  able 
to  predict  its  vagaries,  lie  would  be  a  kind  of 
test  to  us  of  what  we  have  lost  by  our  gregarious 
acquisitions.  On  the  one  hand,  there  would  be 
the  sharpness  of  the  senses,  the  keen  instincts 
(which  the  fox  and  the  beaver  still  possess) ,  the 
abiUty  to  find  one's  way  in  the  pathless  forest,  to 
follow  a  trail,  to  circumvent  the  wild  denizens  of 
the  woods  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  there  would 
be  die  i^hilosophy  of  life  which  the  primitive 
man,  with  little  external  aid,  would  evolve  from 


A  CHAEACTER  STUDY. 


original  observation  and  cogitation.  It  is  our 
good  fortune  to  know  such  a  man  ;  but  it  is  diffi- 
cult  to  present  him  to  a  scientific  and  caviUing 
generation.  He  emigrated  from  somev,  hat  limited 
conditions  in  Vermont,  at  an  early  age,  near'y 
half  a  century  ago,  and  sought  freedom  for  Lis 
natural  development  backward  in  the  wilds  of  the 
Adh'ondacks.  Sometimes  it  is  a  love  of  adven- 
ture and  freedom  that  sends  men  out  of  the  more 
civilized  conditions  into  the  less  ;  sometimes  it  is 
a  constitutional  physical  lassitude  which  leads 
them  to  prefer  the  rod  to  the  hoe,  the  trap  to  the 
sickle,  and  the  society  of  bears  to  town-meetings 
and  taxes.  I  think  that  Old  Mountain  Phelps 
had  merely  the  instincts  of  the  primitive  man, 
and  never  any  hostile  civilizing  intent  as  to  the 
wilderness  into  which  he  plunged.  Why  should 
he  want  to  slash  awa}'  the  forest,  and  plough  up 
the  ancient  mould,  when  it  is  infinitely  pleasanter 
to  roam  about  in  the  leafy  solitudes,  or  sit  upon  a 
mossy  log  and  hsten  to  the  chatter  of  bu'ds  and 
the  stir  of  beasts?  Are  there  not  trout  in  the 
streams,  gum  exuding  from  the  spmce,  sugar  in 


66  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

tlie  maples,  lionc}'  in  the  hollow  trees,  fur  on  the 
snLlcs,  warmth  in  hickoiy-logs  ?  Will  not  a,  few 
clays'  planting  and  scratching  in  the  "open" 
y'clcl  potatoes  and  lye?  And,  if  there  is  steadier 
diet  needed  than  venison  and  bear,  is  the  pig  an 
expensive  animal?  If  Old  Phelps  bowed  to  the 
J/  prejudice  or  fashion  of  his  age  (since  we  have 
come  ont  of  the  tertiarj^  state  of  things),  and 
reared  a  famil}-,  built  a  frame-house  in  a  secluded 
nook  b}'  a  cold  spring,  planted  about  it  some 
apple-trees  and  a  rudimentary  garden,  and  in- 
stalled a  group  of  flaming  sunflowers  b}'  the  door, 
I  am  convinced  that  it  was  a  concession  that  did 
not  touch  his  radical  character  ;  that  is  to  sa}^  it 
did  not  impair  his  reluctance  to  split  oven-wood. 
He  was  a  true  citizen  of  the  wilderness. 
Thoreau  would  have  liked  him,  as  he  lilted  In- 
dians and  woodchucks,  and  the  smell  of  pine- 
forests  ;  and,  if  Old  Phelps  had  seen  Thoreau, 
be  would  i)robabl3'  have  said  to  him,  "Why  c  i 
lirth,  ]Mr.  Tliorcau,  don't  3-ou  live  accordin'  to 
your  prcacliin' ?  "  You  might  be  misled  b}' tho 
shagg}'  suggestion  of  Old  Phelps's  given  name  — 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  87 

Orson  —  into  the  notion  tliat  he  was  a  miglity 
banter,  with  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  Bcrseikers  ii", 
his  veins.  Xothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
truth.  The  hirsute  and  gristy  sound  of  Orson 
expresses  onl}-  his  entire  affinit}'  with  the  nntam(;d 
and  the  natural,  an  uncouth  but  gentle  passion 
for  the  freedom  and  wildness'  of  the  forest.  Or- 
son Phelps  has  only  those  unconventional  and 
humorous  quahties  of  the  bear  which  make  the 
animal  so  beloved  in  hterature  ;  and  one  does  not 
think  of  Old  Phelps  so  much  as  a  lover  of  nature, 
—  to  use  the  sentimental  slang  of  the  period,  — 
as  a  part  of  natrire  itself. 

Plis  appearance  at  the  time  when  as  a  "guide " 
he  began  to  come  into  pubhc  notice  fostered 
this  impression,  —  a  sturd}^  figure,  with  long 
body  and  short  legs,  clad  in  a  woollen  shirt  and 
butternut-colored  trousers  repaired  to  the  point 
of  picturesqueness,  his  head  surmounted  b}'  a 
limp,  light-brown  felt  hat,  fra3'ed  awa}-  at  the 
top,  so  that  his  3'ellowish  hair  grew  out  of  it  like 
some  nameless  fern  out  of  a  pot.  His  tawny 
(laii^  was   long   and   tangled,  matted  now  mau^ 


88  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

years  past  the  possibilit}"  of  being  entered  by  a 
comb.  His  features  were  small  and  delicate,  and 
set  in  the  frame  of  a  reddish  beard,  the  razor 
having  mowed  away  a  clearing  about  the  sensi- 
tive mouth,  which  was  not  seldom  wreathed  with 
a  child-lilvc  and  charming  smile.  Out  of  this 
hirsute  envkonment  looked  the  small  gray  eyes, 
set  near  together ;  eyes  keen  to  observe,  and 
quick  to  express  change  of  thought;  eyes  that 
made  3'ou  believe  instinct  can  grow  into  philo- 
sophic judgment.  His  feet  and  hands  were  of 
aristocratic  smallness,  although  the  latter  were 
not  worn  awa}^  by  ablutions  ;  in  fact,  they  assisted 
his  toilet  to  give  you  the  impression  that  here 
was  a  man  who  had  just  come  out  of  the  ground, 
—  a  real  son  of  the  soil,  whose  appearance  was 
»  partiall}^  explained  by  his  humorous  relation  to 
,  soap.  "Soap  is  a  thing,"  he  said,  "that  I 
\  hain't  no  kinder  use  for."  His  clothes  seemed 
to  have  been  put  on  him  once  for  all,  lilvc  the 
Daik  of  a  tree,  a  long  time  ago.  The  observant 
.♦(tranger  was  sure  to  be  puzzled  by  the  contrast 
uf  this   rcalislic  and  uncoutli  exterior  with  the 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  89       r   r 


internal  fineness,  amounting  to  refinement  and 
culture,  that  shone  through  it  all.  What  com* 
munion  had  supplied  the  place  of  our  artidcia 
breeding  to  this  man  ? 

Perhaps  his  most  characteristic  attitude  wa.i 
sitting  on  a  log,  with  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
If  ever  man  was  formed  to  sit  on  a  log,  it  was 
Old  Phelps.  He  was  essentially  a  contemplative 
person.  Walking  on  a  country  road,  or  any- 
where in  the  "  open,"  was  irksome  to  him.  He 
had  a  shambling,  loose-jointed  gait,  not  unlilie 
that  of  the  bear :  his  short  legs  bowed  out,  as  if 
they  had  been  more  in  the  habit  of  climbing  trees 
than  of  walldng.  On  land,  if  we  may  use  that 
expression,  he  was  something  lilie  a  sailor ;  but, 
once  in  the  rugged  trail  or  the  unmarked  route 
of  his  nauve  forest,  he  was  a  different  person., 
and  few  pedestrians  could  compete  with  him. 
The  vulgar  estimate  of  his  contemporaries,  thkl 
reckoned  Old  Phelps  "  laz}',"  was  simply  a  fail- 
ure to  comprehend  the  conditions  of  his  being. 
It  is  the  unjustness  of  civilization  that  it  sets  up 
uniform  and  artificial  standards  for  all  persons. 


^'^ 


90  IN  THE  WILDERlfESS. 

The  primitive  man  suffers  by  them  much  as  the 
contemplative  philosopher  does,  when  one  hap- 
pens  to  arrive  in  this  busy,  fuss}'  world. 

If  the  appearance  of  Old  Phelps  attracts  at- 
tention, his  voice,  when  first  heard,  invariably 
startles  the  listener.  A  small,  high-pitched,  half- 
querulous  voice,  it  easil}'  rises  into  the  shrillest 
falsetto  ;  and  it  has  a  qualit}^  in  it  that  makes  it 
audible  in  all  the  tempests  of  the  forest,  or  the 
roar  of  rapids,  hke  the  piping  of  a  boatswain's 
whistle  at  sea  in  a  gale.  He  has  a  way  of  letting 
it  rise  as  his  sentence  goes  on,  or  when  he  is 
opposed  in  argument,  or  wishes  to  mount  above 
other  voices  in  the  conversation,  until  it  dominates 
ever}^  thing.  Heard  in  the  depths  of  the  woods, 
quavering  aloft,  it  is  felt  to  be  as  much  a  part  of 
nature,  an  original  force,  as  the  north-west  wind 
or  the  scream  of  the  hen-hawk.  When  he  is  pot- 
tciing  about  the  camp-fire,  tiying  to  light  his  pipe 
nitli  a  twig  held  in  the  flame,  he  is  apt  to  begin 
some  philosophical  observation  in  a  small,  slow, 
Btuml)ling  voice,  which  seems  about  to  end  in 
defeat ;  when  he  puts  on  some  unsuspected  force, 


A   CUARACTEli  STUDY.  91 

and  the  sentence  ends  in  an  insistent  shriek. 
Horcce  Greeley  had  such  a  Toice,  and  could  regu- 
Ip.le  it  in  the  same  manner.  But  Phelps's  voice  is 
not  seldom  plaintive,  as  if  touched  by  the  dreamy 
sadness  of  the  woods  themselves. 

When  Old  Mountain  Phelps  was  discovered,  he 
was,  as  the  reader  has  already  guessed,  not  un- 
derstood by  his  contemporaries.  His  neighbors, 
farmers  in  the  secluded  valle^^,  had  many  of  them 
grown  thrift}'  and  prosperous,  cultivating  the  fer- 
tile meadows,  and  vigorously'  attacking  the  tim- 
bered mountains ;  while  Phelps,  with  not  much 
more  facult}^  of  acquiring  property  than  the  roam- 
ing deer,  had  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  the  life 
in  the  forest  on  which  he  set  out.  ^  The}'  would 
have  been  surprised  to  be  told  that  Old  Phelps 
owned  more  of  what  makes  the  value  of  the 
Adirondacks  than  all  of  them  put  together , 
but  it  was  true.  This  woodsman,  this  trapper, 
this  hunter,  this  fisherman,  this  sitter  on  a,  log, 
and  philosopher,  was  the  real  proprietor  of  the 
region  over  which  he  was  ready  to  guide  the 
stranger.     It  is  trae  that  he  had  not  a  monopoly 


92  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

of  its  geography  or  its  topograph}^  (though  his 
knowledge  was  superior  iu  these  respects)  ;  tliere 
were  other  trappers,  and  more  deadl}^  hunters, 
and  as  intrepid  guides :  but  Old  Phelps  was  the 
discoverer  of  the  beauties  and  subhmities  of  the 
mountains ;  and,  when  cit}^  strangers  broke  into 
the  region,  he  monopolized  the  appreciation  of 
these  dehghts  and  wonders  of  nature.  I  suppose, 
that,  in  all  that  country",  he  alone  had  noticed  the 
sunsets,  and  observed  the  delightful  processes  of 
the  seasons,  taken  pleasure  in  the  woods  for 
themselves,  and  chmbed  mountains  solel}'  for  the 
sake  of  the  prospect.  He  alone  understood  what 
was  meant  by  "  scener}^"  In  the  eyes  of  his 
neighbors,  who  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  poet 
and  a  philosopher,  I  dare  say  he  appeared  to  be 
a  slack  provider,  a  rather  shiftless  trapper  and 
fisherman ;  and  his  passionate  love  of  the  forest 
and  the  mountains,  if  it  was  noticed,  was  ac- 
counted to  him  for  idleness.  When  the  appreci- 
ative tourist  arrived,  Phelps  was  read}',  as  guide, 
to  open  to  him  all  the  wonders  of  his  possessions : 
he,  for  the  first  time,  found  an  outlet  for  his  en 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  93 

thusiasm,  and  a  response  to  his  own  passion* 
It  then  became  known  what  manner  of  man  this 
was  who  had  grown  up  here  in  the  companionship 
of  forests,  mountains,  and  wild  animals  ;  that 
tliese  scenes  had  highly  developed  in  him  the  love 
of  beauty,  the  aesthetic  sense,  dehcacy  of  appre- 
ciation, refinement  of  feehng ;  and  that,  in  his 
sohtary  wanderings  and  musings,  the  primitive 
man,  self-taught,  had  evolved  for  himself  a  phi- 
losophy and  a  system  of  things.  And  it  was  a 
sufficient  system,  so  long  as  it  was  not  disturbed 
by  external  scepticism.  When  the  outer  world 
came  to  him,  perhaps  he  had  about  as  much  to 
give  to  it  as  to  receive  from  it ;  probabty  more,  in 
his  own  estimation ;  for  there  is  no  conceit  like 
that  of  isolation. 

Phelps  loved  his  mountains.  He  was  the  dis- 
coverer of  Marcy,  and  caused  the  first  trail  to  be 
cut  to  its  summit,  so  that  others  could  enjoy  the 
noble  views  from  its  round  and  rocky  top.  To 
him  it  was,  in  noble  s}Tnmetr3^  and  beaut}^  the 
•jhief  mountain  of  the  globe.  To  stand  on  it 
^ave  him,  as  he  said,  "  a  feehng  of  heaven  up- 


94  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

h'isted-ness."  He  heard  with  imioatience  that 
Mount  Washington  was  a  thousand  feet  higher, 
and  he  had  a  child-lilve  incredulity  ah  out  the  sur- 
passing suhhmit}^  of  the  Alps.  Praise  of  any 
other  elevation  he  seemed  to  consider  a  slight  to 
Mount  Marc}^,  and  did  not  wiUingly  hear  it,  any 
more  than  a  lover  hears  the  laudation  of  the 
beauty  of  another  woman  than  the  one  he  loves. 
When  he  showed  us  scenery  he  loved,  it  made 
him  melanchoty  to  have  us  speak  of  scenery  else- 
where that  was  finer.  And  3'et  there  was  this 
dehcac}"  about  him,  that  he  never  over-praised 
what  he  brought  us  to  see,  any  more  than  one 
would  over-praise  a  friend  of  whom  he  was  fond. 
I  remember,  that  when  for  the  first  time,  after  a 
toilsome  journc}^  through  the  forest,  the  splendors 
of  the  Lower  Ausable  Pond  broke  upon  our 
\ision,  —  that  low-lj'ing  silver  lake,  imprisoned 
by  the  precipices  which  it  reflected  in  its  bosom, 
—  he  made  no  outward  response  to  our  burst  of 
admiration  :  only  a  quiet  gleam  of  the  eye  showed 
the  pTeasure  our  appreciation  gave  him.  As  some 
one  said,  it  was  as  if  his  Mend  had  been  admired, 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  95 


—  a  friend  about  whom  he  was  iinwilUng  to  say 
much  himself,  but  well  pleased  to  have  others 
praise. 

Thus  far,  we  have  considered  Old  Phelps  as 
simply  the  product  of  the  Adirondacks ;  not  so 
much  a  self-made  man  (as  the  doubtful  phrase 
has  it)  as  a  natural  growth  amid  primal  forces. 
But  our  study  is  interrupted  by  another  influence, 
which  comphcates  the  problem,  but  increases  its 
interest.  No  scientific  observer,  so  far  as  we 
know,  has  ever  been  able  to  watch  the  develop- 
ment of  the  primitive  man,  played  upon  and 
fashioned  by  the  hebdomadal  iteration  of  ''  Gree- 
ley's Weekly  Tri-bune."  Old  Phelps  educated 
by  the  woods  is  a  fascinating  stud}^ ;  educated 
by  the  woods  and  the  Tri-bune,  he  is  a  iDhenome- 
non.  No  one  at  this  day  can  reasonably  con- 
ceive exactly  what  this  newspaper  was  to  such 
a  mountain  valley  as  Keene.  K  it  was  not  a 
Pro^-idence,  it  was  a  Bible.  It  was  no  doubt 
owing  to  it  that  Democrats  became  as  scarce  as 
moose  in  the  Adu'ondacks.  But  it  is  not  of  its 
poUtical  aspect  that  I  speak.     I  suppose  th  at  the 


96  IK  THE  WILDERNESS, 

most  CR.tivated  and  best  informed  i:)ortion  of  the 
cartli's  surface — the  Western  Reserve  of  Ohio, 
as  free  from  conceit  as  it  is  from  a  suspici(  n 
that  it  lacks  an}"  thing — owes  its  pre-eminence 
solel}'  to  this  comprehensive  journal.  It  received  I 
from  it  ever}'  thing  except  a  collegiate  and  a  classl- 1 
cal  education, — things  not  to  be  desired,  since t 
tliey  interfere  with  the  self-manufacture  of  man.  * 
If  Greek  had  been  in  this  curriculum,  its  best 
known  dictum  would  have  been  translated, 
"Make  tli3-self."  This  journal  carried  to  the 
community  that  fed  on  it  not  o\\\j  a  complete 
education  in  all  departments  of  human  practice 
and  theorizing,  but  the  more  valuable  and  satis- 
fying assurance  that  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  gleaned  in  the  universe  worth  the  attention  of 
man.  This  panoplied  its  readers  in  completeness. 
Politics,  literature,  arts,  sciences,  universal  broth- 
erhood and  sisterhood,  —  nothhig  was  omitted; 
neither  the  poetr}'  of  Tenn3'son,  nor  the  philos- 
opli}'  of  Margaret  Fuller  ;  neither  the  virtues  of 
association,  nor  of  unbolted  wheat.  The  laws 
of  political  economy  and  trade  were  laid  down  aa 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  97 

positively  and  clearly  as  the  best  wa}'  to  bake 
beans,  and  the  saving  truth  that  the  millennium 
would  come,  and  come  onl}'  when  every  foot  of 
the  earth  was  subsoiled. 

I  do  not  sa}'  that  Orson  Phelps  was  the  product 
of  natui'e  and  the  Tri-bune ;  but  he  cannot  be 
explained  without  considering  these  two  factors. 
To  him  Greeley  was  the  Tri-bune,  and  the  Tri- 
bune was  Greelej^ ;  and  3'et  I  think  he  conceived 
of  Horace  Greelej'  as  something  greater  than  his 
newspaper,  and  i^erhaps  capable  of  producing 
another  jomiial  equal  to  it  in  another  i^art  of  the 
universe.  At  an}^  rate,  so  completely  did  Phelps 
absorb  this  pai:)er  and  this  personality,  that  he 
was  popularly  known  as  ' '  Greeley ' '  in  the  region 
where  he  lived.  Perhaps  a  fancied  resemblance 
of  the  two  men  in  the  popular  mind  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  this  transfer  of  name.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  Horace  Greeley  owed  his  vast  in- 
fluence in  the  country  to  his  genius,  nor  much 
doubt  that  he  owed  his  popularity  in  the  rm-al 
iistricts  to  James  Gordon  Bennett ;  that  is,  to 
the  personality  of  the  man  which  the  ingenious 


98  m  THE  WILDEHSESS. 


Bennett  impressed  upon  the  countiy.  That  he 
despised  the  conventionalities  of  societ}',  and  was 
a  sloven  in  his  toilet,  was  firmly  believed  ;  and 
the  ])elief  endeared  him  to  the  hearts  of  the 
people.  To  them  "the  old  white  coat''  —  an 
antique  garment  of  unrenewed  immortaht}^ — was 
as  much  a  subject  of  idolatry  as  the  redingote 
grise  to  the  soldiers  of  the  first  Napoleon,  who 
had  seen  it  by  the  camp-fires  on  the  Po  and  on 
the  Bor^'sthenes,  and  believed  that  he  would  come 
again  in  it  to  lead  them  against  the  enemies  of 
France.  The  Greeley  5f  the  popular  heart  was 
clad  as  Bennett  said  he  was  clad.  It  was  in  vain, 
even  pathetically  in  vain,  that  he  published  in  his 
newspaper  the  full  bill  of  his  fashionable  tailor 
(the  fact  that  it  was  receipted  ma}'  have  excited 
the  animosity  of  some  of  his  contemporaries)  to 
show  that  he  wore  the  best  broadcloth,  and  that 
the  folds  of  his  trousers  followed  the  city  fashion 
of  falUng  outside  his  boots.  If  this  revelation 
was  believed,  it  made  no  sort  of  impression  in 
the  country.  The  rural  readers  were  not  to  be 
wheedled  out  of  their  cherished   conception   of 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  99 


the  personal  appearance  of  the  philosophei    of 
the  Tri-bune. 

That  the  Tri-bune  taught   Old   Phelps  to  ho  | 
more  Phelps  than  he  would  have  been  without  it  \ 
was  part  of  the  independence-teaohing  mission  ^ 
of    Greeley's  paper.     The  subscribers  were  an 
armj',  in  which  every  man  was  a  general.     And 
I  am  not  surprised  to  find  Old  Phelps  lately  rising 
to  the  audacity  of  criticising  his  exemplar.     In 
some  recentlj'-published  observations  b}^  Phelps 
upon  the  philosophy  of  reading  is  laid  down  this 
definition :   "  If  I   understand  the   necessity  or 
use  of  reading,  it  is  to  reproduce  again  what  has 
been  said  or  proclaimed  before.     Hence  letters,  • 
characters,  &c.,  are  arranged  in  all  the  perfection 
they  possibly  can  be,  to  show  how  certain  lan- 
guage has  been  spoken  by  the  original  author. 
Now,  to  reproduce  b}^  reading,  the  reading  should 
be   so   perfectly  like  the  original,  that   no  one 
standing  out  of  sight  could  tell  the  reading  from 
the  first  time  the  language  was  spoken." 

This  is  illustrated  by  the  highest  authority  at 
hand  :  "  I  have  heard  as  good  readers  read,  and 


100  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

as  poor  readers,  as  almost  any  one  in  this  region. 
If  I  have  not  heard  as  man}',  I  have  had  a 
chance  to  hear  nearl}^  the  extreme  in  variety. 
Horace  Greelej'  ouglit  to  have  been  a  good  read- 
ei .  Certain!}^  but  few,  if  an}',  ever  knew  every 
^vord  of  the  Enghsh  language  at  a  glance  more 
readily  than  he  did,  or  knew  the  meaning  of 
every  mark  of  punctuation  more  clearl}^ ;  but  he 
could  not  read  proper.  '  But  how  do  3'ou  know  ?  * 
saj^s  one.  From  the  fact,  I  heard  hun  in  the 
same  lecture  deliver  or  produce  remarks  in  his 
own  particular  wa}',  that,  if  they  had  been  pub- 
lished properl}'  in  print,  a  proper  reader  would 
have  reproduced  them  again  the  same  way.  In 
the  midst  of  those  remarks  Mr.  Greeley  took  up 
a  paper,  to  reproduce  by  reading  part  of  a  speech 
that  some  one  else  had  made ;  and  his  reading 
did  not  sound  much  more  lilio  the  man  that  first 
read  or  made  the  speech  than  the  cmiter  of  a 
nail-factor}^  sounds  like  a  well-deUvcred  speech. 
Now,  the  fault  was  not  because  Mr.  Greeley  did 
not  know  how  to  read  as  well  as  almost  any  man 
'iiat  ever  Uved,  if  not  quite  :  but  in  his  youth  he 


A  CHAEACTER  STUDY.  1)1 

learned  to  read  wrong ;  and,  as  it  is  ten  times 
harder  to  unlearn  an}^  thing  than  it  is  to  learn  it, 
he,  like  thousands  of  others,  could  never  stop  to 
unlearn  it,  but  carried  it  on  through  Lis  whole 
life."' 

Whether  a  reader  would  be  thanked  for  repro- 
ducing one  r>f  Horace  Greelej-'s  lectures  as  he 
delivered  it  is  a  question  that  cannot  detain  us 
here  ;  but  the  teaching  that  he  ought  to  do  so,  I 
thinli,  would  please  Mr.  Greelc}'. 

The  first  driblets  of  professional  toui'ists  and 
summer  boarders  who  arrived  among  the  Adiron- 
dack Mountains  a  few  years  ago  found  Old 
Phelps  the  chief  and  best  guide  of  the  region. 
Those  who  were  eager  to  throw  off  the  usages  of 
civilization,  and  tramp  and  camp  in  the  wilder- 
ness, could  not  but  be  well  satisfied  with  the 
aboriginal  appearance  of  this  guide  ;  and  when 
he  led  off  into  the  woods,  axe  in  hand,  and  a 
huge  canvas  sack  upon  his  shoulders,  the}'  seemed 
to  be  following  the  Wandering  Jew.  The  con- 
tents of  this  sack  vrould  have  far:iished  a  modern 
industrial   exhibition, — provisions    cooked    and 


102  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

raw,  blankets,  maple-sugar,  tin-ware,  clothing, 
pork,  Indian -meal,  flour,  coffee,  tea,  &c.  Ptelpg 
was  the  ideal  guide :  he  knew  ever}'  foot  of  tho 
pathless  forest ;  he  knew  all  wood-craft,  all  the 
signs  of  the  weather,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing, 
how  to  make  a  Delphic  prediction  about  it. 
He  was  fisherman  and  hunter,  and  had  been  the 
comrade  of  sportsmen  and  explorers ;  and  his 
enthusiasm  for  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the 
region,  and  for  its  untamable  wildness,  amounted 
to  a  passion.  He  loved  his  profession  ;  and  3'et 
it  very  soon  appeared  that  he  exercised  it  with 
reluctance  for  those  who  had  neither  idealit}",  nor 
love  for  the  woods.  Their  presence  was  a  profa- 
nation amid  the  scenery  he  loved.  To  guide 
into  his  private  and  secret  haunts  a  party  that 
had  no  appreciation  of  their  loveliness  disgusted 
him.  It  was  a  waste  of  his  time  to  conduct  flip- 
pant 3'oung  men  and  giddy  girls  who  made  a 
noisy  and  irreverent  lark  of  the  expedition.  And. 
for  their  part,  they  did  not  appreciate  the  benefit 
of  being  accompanied  by  a  poet  and  a  philoso- 
pher.    They  neither  understood  nor  valued  his 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  103 

special  knowledge  and  his  shrewd  observation 3  : 
they  didn't  even  like  his  shrill  voice  ;  his  quaii:^t 
talk  bored  them.  It  was  true,  that,  at  this 
period,  Phelps  had  lost  something  of  the  activity 
m  his  youth  ;  and  the  habit  of  contemplative  sit- 
ting on  a  log  and  talking  increased  with  the 
infirmities  induced  by  the  hard  life  of  the  woods- 
man. Perhaps  he  would  rather  talk,  either  about  ^ 
the  woods-hfe  or  tlie  various  problems  of  exist- 
ence, than  cut  wood,  or  bus}^  himself  in  the 
drudgery  of  the  camp.  His  critics  went  so  far 
as  to  sa}',  "  Old  Phelps  is  a  fraud."  Thc}^  would 
have  said  the  same  of  Socrates.  Xantippe,  who 
never  appreciated  the  world  in  which  Socrates 
Uved,  thought  he  was  lazy.  Probably  Socrates 
could  cook  no  better  than  Old  Phelps,  and  no 
doubt  went  ' '  gumming ' '  about  Athens  with  very 
little  care  of  what  was  in  the  pot  for  dinner. 

If  the  sumii*v.r  visitors  measured  Old  Phelps, 
he  also  measured  them  by  his  own  standards. 
He  used  to  write  out  what  he  called  "  short-faced 
descriptions"  of  his  comrades  in  the  woods, 
which  were  never  so  flatterins:  as  true.     It  was 


104  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

curious  to  sec  how  the  various  qualities  which  ar€ 
esteemed  in  society"  appeared  in  his  e^'es,  looked 
at  merel}^  in  their  relation  to  the  limited  world  he 
knew,  and  judged  b}"  their  adaptation  to  the 
primitive  life.  It  was  a  much  subtler  comparison 
than  that  of  the  ordinar}^  guide,  who  rates  hi3 
traveller  b}^  his  abilit}'  to  endure  on  a  march,  to  ' 
carr}^  a  pack,  use  an  oar,  hit  a  mark,  or  sing  a 
song.  Phelps  brought  his  people  to  a  test  of  I 
their  naturalness  and  sinceritj',  tried  by  contact '^ 
with  the  verities  of  the  woods.  If  a  person 
failed  to  appreciate  the  woods,  Phelps  had  no 
opinion  of  him  or  his  culture  ;  and  3'et,  although 
he  was  perfectl}'  satisfied  with  his  own  philosophy 
of  life,  worked  out  b}'  close  observation  of  nature 
and  stud}'  of  the  Tri-bune,  he  was  alwa3's  eager 
for  converse  with  superior  minds, — with  those 
who  had  the  advantage  of  travel  and  much  read- 
ing, and,  above  all,  with  those  who  had  an}' origi- 
nal "  speckerlation."  Of  all  the  socict}'  he  was 
ever  permitted  to  enjo}-,  I  think  he  prized  most 
that  of  Dr.  BushncU.  The  doctor  enjo^'ed  the 
quaint   and   first-hand   observations   of    the   olO 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  105 

tvoodsman,  and  Phelps  found  new  worlds  open 
to  him  in  the  wide  ranges  of  the  doctor's  mind. 
Tlie}'  tallved  hy  the  hour  upon  all  sorts  of  themes, 
— ■  the  growth  of  the  tree,  the  habits  of  wiU^ 
animals,  the  migi-ation  of  seeds,  the  succession 
of  oak  and  pine,  not  to  mention  theolog}',  and 
the  m3'steries  of  the  supernatural. 

I  recall  the  bearing  of  Old  Phelps,  when,  several 
3'ears  ago,  he  conducted  a  party  to  the  summit  of 
Mount  Marc}'  b}^  the  wa^'  he  had  "  bushed  out." 
This  was  his  mountain,  and  he  had  a  x^ecuhar 
sense  of  ownership  in  it.  In  a  waj',  it  was  holy 
ground  ;  and  he  would  rather  no  one  should  go  on 
it  who  did  not  feel  its  sanctit}'.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
sense  of  some  divine  relation  in  it  that  made  him 
always  speak  of  it  as  "  Mercy."  To  him  this 
ridiculously  dubbed  Mount  Marcy  was  always 
"  Mount  Mere}-."  Bj'  a  like  effort  to  soften  the 
personal  offensiveness  of  the  nomenclature  of 
this  region,  he  invariabl}'  spoke  of  Dix's  Peak, 
one  of  the  southern  peaks  of  the  range,  uC 
''Dixie."  It  was  some  time  since  Phelps  him- 
self had  visited  his  mountain  ;  and,  as  he  pushed 


106  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

on  through  the  miles  of  forest,  we  noticed  a  kind 
of  eagerness  in  the  old  man,  as  of  a  lover  going 
to  a  rendezvous.  Along  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain flows  a  clear  trout-stream,  secluded  and  un- 
disturbed in  those  awful  solitudes,  w^hich  is  the 
""Merc}^  Brook"  of  the  old  woodsman.  That 
da}'  when  he  crossed  it,  in  advance  of  his  ccm- 
pau}',  he  was  heard  to  sa}'  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
gi'eeting  some  object  of  which  he  was  sh3'l3'  fond, 
.  "So,  little  brook,  do  I  meet  3'ou  once  more?" 
and  when  we  were  well  up  the  mountain,  and 
emerged  from  the  last  stunted  fringe  of  vegeta- 
tion upon  the  rock-bound  slope,  I  saw  Old  Phelps, 
who  was  still  foremost,  cast  himself  upon  the 
gi'ound,  and  heard  him  cr}^,  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  was  intended  for  no  mortal  ear,  "  I'm  with 
you  once  again  !  "  His  great  passion  very  rarely 
found  expression  in  an}^  such  theatrical  burst. 
The  bare  summit  that  day  was  swept  b}^  a  fieree, 
cold  wind,  and  lost  in  an  occasional  chilling 
cloud.  Some  of  the  part}^,  exhausted  by  the 
climb,  and  shivering  in  the  rude  wind,  wanted  a 
fii'G  kindled  and  a  cup  of  tea  made,  and  though 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  107 

this  '.he  guide's  business.  Fire  and  tea  were  far 
enough  from  his  thought.  He  had  withdrawn 
himself  quite  apart,  and  wrapped  in  a  ragged 
blanket,  still  and  silent  as  the  rock  he  stood  on, 
was  gazing  out  upon  the  wilderness  of  peaks. 
The  \ievf  from  Marcy  is  i)eculiar.  It  is  without 
softness  or  relief.  The  narrow  Yalle3'S  are  only 
dark  shadows  ;  the  lakes  are  bits  of  broken  mir- 
ror. From  horizon  to  horizon  there  is  a  tiunultu- 
ous  sea  of  billows  turned  to  stone.  You  stand 
upon  the  highest  billow  ;  j'ou  command  the  situa- 
tion ;  3'ou  have  surprised  Nature  in  a  high  creative 
act ;  the  might}'  lorimal  energy  has  onl}'  just  be- 
come repose.  This  was  a  supreme  hour  to  Old 
Phelps.  Tea !  I  beheve  the  boys  succeeded  in 
kindhng  a  fire  ;  but  the  enthusiastic  stoic  had  no 
reason  to  complain  of  want  of  appreciation  in  the 
rest  of  the  party.  AYhen  we  were  descending,  lie 
luld  us,  with  mingled  hiunor  and  scorn,  of  a  party 
of  ladies  he  once  led  to  the  top  of  the  mountain 
on  a  still  da}',  who  began  immediatel}'  to  tali 
about  the  fashions  !  As  he  related  the  scene, 
stopping  and  facing  us  in  the  trail,  his  mild,  far. 


x08  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

in  ejxs  came  to  the  front,  and  Ms  voice  rose  witli 
his  language  to  a  kind  of  scream. 

"  "\yh3',  there  thc}^  were,  right  be  Core  the  gi'cat- 
est  view  they  ever  saio,  talldn'  about  the 
fasJiions  I ' ' 

Impossible  to  convey  the  accent  of  contempt 
in  which  he  pronounced  the  word  "fashions," 
and  then  added,  with  a  sort  of  regi'etful  bitter- 
ness, — 

"  I  was  a  great  mind  to  come  down,  and  leave 
*  em  there." 

In  common  with  the  Greeks,  Old  Phelps  per- 
sonified the  woods,  mountains,  and  streams. 
They  had  not  only  personalit}',  but  distinctions  of 
sex.  It  was  something  beyond  the  characteriza- 
tion of  the  hunter,  which  appeared,  for  instance, 
when  he  related  a  fight  with  a  panther,  in  such 
expressions  as,  *'Then  Mr.  Panther  thought  he 
would  see  what  he  could  do,"  &c.  He  was  in 
**  imaginative  s3-mpathy  "  with  all  wild  things. 
The  afternoon  we  descended  IMarcy,  we  went 
away  to  the  west,  through  tlic  primeval  forests, 
toward  Avalanche  and  Coldcn,  and  followed  the 


A   CnARACTER  STUDY,  109 

course  of  the  charming  Opalescent.  When  we 
reached  the  leaping  stream,  Plielps  exclaimed,  — ■ 

*' Here's  Httle  Miss  Opalescent !  " 

*'Wli3'  don't  3'0ii  sa}-  Mr.  Opalescent?"  some 
one  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  too  pretty!"  Anci  too  prettj' she 
was,  with  her  foam-white  and  rainbow  dress,  and 
her  downfalls,  and  fountain-like  uprising.  A  be- 
witching 3'oung  person  we  found  her  all  that  sum- 
mer afternoon. 

This  sylph-like  i)erson  had  little  in  common 
with  a  monstrous  lad}'  whose  adventures  in  the 
wilderness  Phelps  was  fond  of  relating.  She 
was  built  something  on  the  plan  of  the  mountains, 
and  her  ambition  to  explore  was  equal  to  her 
size.  Phelps  and  the  other  guides  once  suc- 
ceeded in  ra.oing  her  to  the  top  of  Marc}' ;  but 
the  feat  of  getting  a  hogshead  of  molasses  up 
there  would  have  been  easier.  In  attemj^ting  to 
give  us  an  idea  of  her  magnitude  that  n  gnt,  as 
we  sat  in  the  forest  camp,  Phelps  hesitated  a 
moment,  while  he  cast  his  e3'e  around  the  woods  ; 
"  Waal,  there  ain't  no  tree,  I  *' 


110  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

It  is  only  b}^  recalling  fragmentaiy  remarks 
and  incidents  that  I  can  pnt  the  reader  in  pos- 
session of  the  pecuUarities  of  my  subject ;  and 
this  involves  the  wrenching  of  things  out  of  theii 
natural  order  and  continuity",  and  introducing 
them  abruptly,  —  an  abruptness  illustrated  by  the 
remark  of  "Old  Man  Hoskins"  (which  Phelps 
liked  to  quote) ,  when  one  day  he  suddenl}-  slipped 
down  a  banlv  into  a  thicket,  and  seated  himself 
in  a  wasps'  nest:  "I  hain't  no  business  here; 
but  here  I  be!" 

The  first  time  we  went  into  camp  on  the  Upper 
Ausable  Pond,  which  has  been  justly  celebrated 
as  the  most  prettil}^  set  sheet  of  water  in  the  re- 
gion, we  were  disposed  to  build  our  shantj^  on 
the  south  side,  so  that  we  could  have  in  full  view 
the  Gothics  and  that  loveliest  of  mountain  con- 
tours. To  our  surprise,  Old  Phelps,  whose  senti- 
mental weakness  for  these  mountains  we  knew, 
opposed  this.  His  favorite  camping-ground  was 
on  the  north  side,  —  a  pretty  site  in  itself,  but 
with  no  spcci:il  i-iew.  In  order  to  enjoy  the  lovely 
mountains,  wo  should  be  obhged  to  row  out  into 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  Ill 

the  lake :  we  wanted  them  always  before  oui' 
e3'es,  —  at  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  in  the  blaze 
of  noon.  With  deUberate  speech,  as  if  weighing 
our  arguments  and  disposing  of  them,  he  replied, 
*'Waal,  now,  them  Gothics  ain'^  the  kinder 
scener}^  3'ou  want  ter  hog  down ! ' ' 

It  was  on  quiet  Sunda3'S  in  the  woods,  or  in 
talks  by  the  camp-fire,  that  Phelps  came  out  as 
the  philosopher,  and  commonly  contributed  the 
light  of  his  observations .  Unfortunate  marriages , 
and  marriages  in  general,  were,  on  one  occasion, 
the  subject  of  discussion;  and  a  good  deal  of 
darkness  had  been  cast  on  it  by  various  speakers  ; 
when  Phelps  suddenly  piped  up,  from  a  log  where 
he  had  sat  silent,  almost  invisible,  in  the  shadow 
and  smoke,  — 

"  Waal,  now,  when  3'ou've  said  all  there  is  to 
be  said,  marriage  is  mostl3'  for  discipline." 

Discipline,  certainl3^,  the  old  man  had,  in  one 
wa3^  or  another ;  and  3'ears  of  sohtar3"  com- 
muning in  the  forest  had  given  him,  perhaps,  a 
childlike  insight  into  spiritual  concerns.  Wheth- 
er he  had  formulated  an3'  creed,  or  what  faith  he 


112  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

had,  I  never  knew.  Keene  Yalle}'  had  a  reputa- 
tion of  not  ripening  Christians  any  more  succcss- 
f'llly  than  maize,  the  season  there  being  short ; 
and  on  our  first  visit  it  was  said  to  contain  but 
one  Bible  Christian,  though  I  think  an  accurate 
census  disclosed  three.  Old  Phelps,  who  some-^ 
times  made  abrupt  remarks  in  tr^'ing  situations, 
was  not  included  in  this  census  ;  but  he  was  the 
I  disciple  of  supernaturalism  in  a  most  charming 
'form.  I  have  heard  of  his  opening  his  inmost 
thoughts  to  a  lad}',  one  Sunda}',  after  a  noble 
sermon  of  Robertson's  had  been  read  in  the 
cathedral  stillness  of  the  forest.  His  experience 
was  entirely  first-hand,  and  related  with  uncon- 
sciousness that  it  was  not  common  to  all.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  mystic  or  the  sentimentalist, 
onl}'  a  vivid  realism,  in  that  nearness  of  God  of 
which  he  spoke,  —  "  as  near  sometimes  as  those 
tr^es,"  —  and  of  the  holy  voice,  that,  in  a  ^jnic 
of  inward  struggle,  had  seemed  to  him  to  come 
from  the  depths  of  the  forest,  saying,  "Poor 
Boul,  I  am  the  way." 
In  later  years  there  was  a  ' '  revival ' '  iu  Kecue 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  113 

Valle}^,  the  result  of  which  was  a  number  of 
5'ouDg  "converts,"  whom  Phelps  seemcrl  to  re- 
gard as  a  veteran  might  raw  recruits,  and  to  have 
his  doubts  what  sort  of  soldiers  the}'  would  make. 

"  Waal,  Jimmy,"  he  said  to  one  of  them, 
"  3'ou've  kindled  a  prettj'  good  fii'e  with  hght 
wood.  That's  what  we  do  of  a  dark  night  in  the 
woods,  you  know  ;  but  we  do  it  just  so  as  we  can 
look  around  and  find  the  sohd  wood :  so  now 
put  on  your  solid  wood." 

In  the  Sunday  Bible-classes  of  the  period  Phelps 
was  a  perpetual  anxiet3'to  the  others,  who  followed 
closely  the  printed  lessons,  and  beheld  with  alarm 
his  discursive  efforts  to  get  into  freer  air  and  light. 
His  remarks  were  the  most  refreshing  part  of  the 
exercises,  but  were  outside  of  the  safe  path  into 
which  the  others  thought  it  necessary  to  win  Iiim 
from  his  "  speckerlations."  The  class  were  one 
da}  on  the  verses  concerning  "God's  word" 
being  "  written  on  the  heart,"  and  were  keeping 
close  to  the  shore,  under  the  guidance  of 
"Barnes's  Notes,"  when  Old  Phelps  made  a  dive 
to  the  bottom,  and  remarked  that  he  had  "thought 


114  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

a  good  deal  about  the  expression,  '  God's  word 
wi'itten  on  the  heart,'  and  had  been  asking  him- 
self how  that  was  to  be  done ;  anc  suddenly  it 
occurred  to  him  (having  been  much  interested 
latel}'  in  watching  the  work  of  a  photographer) , 
that,  when  a  photograph  is  going  to  be  taken,  all 
that  has  to  be  done  is  to  put  the  object  in  posi- ' 
tion,  and  the  sun  makes  the  picture ;  and  so  he 
rather  thought  that  all  we  had  got  to  do  was  to 
put  our  hearts  in  place,  and  God  would  do  the 
writin'." 

Phelps's  theolog}^,  like  his  science,  is  first-hand. 
In  the  woods,  one  day,  talli  ran  on  the  Trinity  as 
being  nowhere  asserted  as  a  doctrine  in  the  Bible  ; 
and  some  one  suggested  that  the  attempt  to  pack 
these  great  and  fluent  m3'steries  into  one  word 
must  always  be  more  or  less  unsatisfactor3^ 
"Fe-es,"  droned  Phelps:  "I  never  could  see 
mucli  speckerlation  in  that  expression  the  Trinity ^ 
Why,  they'd  a  good  deal  better  say  Legion.'^ 

The  sentiment  of  the  man  about  nature,  or  hia 
poetic  sensibility,  was  frequentl}'  not  to  be  dis' 
b'iiguished  from  a  natural  religion,  and  was  always 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  115 

tinged  with  the  devoutncss  of  Wordsworth's 
verse.  Climbing  slowl}'  one  day  up  the  Bal- 
cony, —  he  was  more  than  usuall}^  calm  and  slow, 
—  he  espied  an  exquisite  fragile  flower  in  the 
crevice  of  a  rock,  in  a  very  lonely  spot. 

*'It  seems  as  if,"  he  said,  or  rather  dreamed 
out,  —  "it  seems  as  if  the  Creator  had  kept  some- 
thing just  to  look  at  himself.'* 

To  a  lady  whom  he  had  taken  to  Chapel  Pond 
(a  retired  but  rather  uninteresting  spot) ,  and  who 
expressed  a  little  disappointment  at  its  tameness, 
saving, 

"  Wh}',  ]Mr.  Phelps,  the  principal  chai*m  of 
this  place  seems  to  be  its  loneliness,"  — 

"Yes,"  he  replied  in  gentle  and  lingering 
tones,  "  and  its  nativeness.  It  hes  here  just 
where  it  was  born." 

Rest  and  quiet  had  infinite  attractions  for  him. 
A  secluded  opening  in  the  woods  was  a  "  calm 
spot."  He  told  of  seeing  once,  or  rather  being 
17? ,  a  circular  rainbow.  He  stood  on  Indian  Head, 
overlooking  the  Lower  Lake,  so  that  he  saw  the 
vrhole  bow  in  the  sky  and  the  lake,  and  seemed  to 


116  I2V  THE  WILDERNESS. 

be  in  tlie  midst  of  it ;  "  onl}'  at  one  place  there 
was  an  indentation  in  it,  where  it  rested  on  tho 
lake,  just  enough  to  keep  it  from  rolUng  off." 
This  "resting"  of  the  sphere  seemed  to  give 
him  great  comfort. 

One  Indian-summer  morning  in  October,  some 
ladies  found  the  old  man  sitting  on  his  doorstep, 
smoking  a  short  pipe.  He  gave  no  sign  of  rec- 
ognition of  their  approach,  except  a  twinkle  of 
the  e3'e,  being  evidently  quite  in  harmony  with 
the  peaceful  day.  The}^  stood  there  a  full  minute 
before  he  opened  his  mouth :  then  he  did  not  rise, 
but  slowl}'  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  said 
in  a  dreamy  waj',  pointing  towards  the  brook,  — 

' '  Do  3'ou  see  that  tree  ?  ' '  indicating  a  mai^le 
almost  denuded  of  leaves,  which  laj-  lilie  a  3'ellow 
garment  cast  at  its  feet.  "  I've  been  watching 
that  tree  all  the  morning.  There  hain't  been  a 
breath  of  wind :  but  for  hours  the  leaves  have 
been  falling,  falUng,  just  as  3'ou  see  them  now ; 
and  at  last  it's  prett}"  much  bare."  And  after  a 
pause,  pensively :  "  Waal,  I  suppose  its  hour  ha(t 
come." 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  117 

This  contempljitivc  habit  of  Old  Phelps  ^*a 
wholl}'  unappreciated  by  his  neighbors  ;  but  it 
has  been  indulged  in  no  inconsiderable  part  of 
his  life.  Rising  after  a  time,  he  said,  "  Now  I 
want  3'ou  to  go  with  me  and  see  my  golden  city 
I've  talked  so  much  about."  He  led  the  way  to 
a  hill-outlook,  when  suddenly,  emerging  from  the 
forest,  the  spectators  saw  revealed  the  winding 
valley  and  its  stream.  He  said  quietlj',  "There 
is  my  golden  city."  Far  below,  at  then-  feet, 
they  saw  that  vast  assemblage  of  birches  and 
"  popples,"  3'ellow  as  gold  in  the  brooding  noon- 
da}',  and  slender  spires  rising  out  of  the  glowing 
mass.  Without  another  word,  Phelps  sat  a  long 
time  in  silent  content :  it  was  to  him,  as  Bunj'an 
saj'S,  "  a  place  desirous  to  be  in." 

Is  this  philosoj^her  contented  with  what  life  has 
brought  him  ?  Speaking  of  money  one  da}",  when 
we  had  asked  him  if  he  should  do  differently  if 
he  had  his  life  to  live  over  again,  he  said,  "  Yes, 
but  not  about  money.  To  have  had  hours  such 
as  I  have  had  in  these  mountains,  and  with  such 
nvn  as  Dr.  BushneU  and  Dr.   Shaw  and   Mr 


118  /y  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Twichell,  and  others  I  could  name,  is  worth  all 
the  money  the  world  could  give."  He  read  char- 
acter very  well,  and  took  in  accurate^  the  boy 
natm*e.  "Tom"  (an  irrepressible,  rather  over- 
done specimen) ,  —  "  Tom's  a  nice  kind  of  a  boy  ; 
but  he's  got  to  come  up  against  a  snubbin'-post 
one  of  these  days."  —  "  Boj^s !  "  he  once  said : 
"you  can't  git  boys  to  take  any  kinder  notice  of 
scenery.  I  never  yet  saw  a  boy  that  would  look 
a  second  time  at  a  sunset.  Now,  a  girl  will  so7ne- 
times;  but  even  then  it's  instantaneous,  — cornea 
and  goes  lilie  the  sunset.  As  for  me,"  still  spealc- 
ing  of  scenery,  "these  mountains  about  here, 
that  I  see  every  day,  are  no  more  to  me,  in  one 
sense,  than  a  man's  farm  is  to  him.  What  mostly 
interests  me  now  is  when  I  see  some  new  freak 
or  shape  in  tjhe  face  of  Nature." 

In  literati-re  it  may  be  said  that  Old  Phelps 
prefers  the  best  in  the  ver}^  limited  range  that 
has  been  open  to  him.  Tcnn3'son  is  his  favorite 
among  poets ;  an  aflinity  explained  by  the  fact 
that  they  are  both  lotos-eaters.  Speaking  of  a 
lecture-room  talk  of  JMr.  Beecher's  which  he  had 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  119 

read,  he  said,  "  It  filled  my  cup  about  as  full  a3 
I  callerlate  to  have  it :  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  it,  and  some  poetry ;   waal,  and  a  little 
spice  too.      "We've  got  to  have  the   spice,  3'ou 
know."     He   admired,   for   different  reasons,   a 
lecture  b}-  Greeley  that  he  once  heard,  into  which 
so  much  knowledge  of  various  kinds  was  crowded,  f 
that  he  said  he  "made  a  reg'lar  gobble  of  it."* 
He  was  not  without  discrimination,  which  he  ex-  ^ 
ercised  upon  the  local  preaching  when   nothing 
better  offered.     Of  one  sermon  he  said,  "The 
man  began  way  back  at  the  creation,   and  just 
preached  right  along  down ;   and  he  didn't  say 
nothing,  after  all.     It  just  seemed  to  me  as  if  he 
was  tr3in'  to  git  up  a  kind  of  a  fix-up." 

Old  Phelps  used  words  soiuetimfis  like  alge- 
braic signs,  and  had  a  habit  of  making  one  do 
duty  for  a  season  together  for  all  occasions. 
"  Speckerlation "  and  "  callerlation "  and  "fix- 
up  ' '  are  specimens  of  words  that  were  prolific 
in  expression.  An  unusual  expression,  or  an 
unusual  article,  would  be  characterized  as  a  "  kind 
of  a  scientific  literary  git-up." 


120  IJSr  THE  WILDERNESS. 

"  ^^Tiat  is  the  programme  for  to-morrow?"  I 
once  asked  him.  "  Waal,  I  callerlate,  if  they 
rig  up  the  callerlation  the}"  callerlate  on,  we'll  go 
to  the  Boreas."  Starting  out  for  a  daj-'s  tramp 
in  the  woods,  he  would  ask  whether  we  wanted 
to  talie  a  "  reg'lar  wallv,  or  a  random  scoot,"  — • 
the  latter  being  a  plunge  into  the  pathless  forest. 
When  he  was  on  such  an  expedition,  and  became 
entangled  in  dense  brush,  and  maj'be  a  network 
of  "  slash"  and  swamp,  he  was  hke  an  old  wiz- 
ard, as  he  looked  here  and  there,  seeking  a  wa}', 
peering  into  the  tangle,  or  withdi'awing  from  a 
thicket,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "  There  ain't  no 
speckerlation  there."  And  when  the  way  became 
altogether  inscrutable,  —  "  Waal,  this  is  a  reg'lar 
random  scoot  of  a  rigmarole."  As  some  one  re- 
marked, "The  dictionary  in  his  hands  is  lilte  clay 
in  the  hands  of  the  potter."  A  petrifaction  was 
a  "  kind  of  a  hard-wood  chemical  git-up." 

There  is  no  conceit,  we  are  apt  to  say,  like  that 
fborn  of  isolation  from  the  world,  and  theva  are 
no  such  conceited  people  as  those  who  have  lived 
all  their  lives  in  the  woods.    Phelps  was,  however. 


A   CHARACTEE  STUDY.  121 

unsophisticated  in  his  until  the  advent  of  stran- 
gers into  his  life,  T\'ho  brought  in  literature  and 
various  other  disturbing  influences.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  the  effect  has  been  to  take  off  some- 
thing of  the  bloom  of  his  simplicity,  and  to  ele-' 
vate  him  into  an  oracle.  I  suppose  this  is  inevi- 
table as  soon  as  one  goes  into  print ;  and  Pheljps 
has  gone  into  print  in  the  local  papers.  Me  \as 
been  bitten  with  the  literary  "git-up."  Justly 
regarding  most  of  the  Adirondack  literature  as  a 
"  perfect  fizzle,"  he  has  himself  projected  a  work, 
and  written  much  on  the  natural  history'  of  his 
region.  Long  ago  he  made  a  large  map  of  the 
mountain  country ;  and,  until  recent  surveys,  it 
was  the  onl}^  one  that  could  lay  any  claim  to  ac- 
curac}'.  His  history  is  no  doubt  original  in  form, 
and  unconventional  in  expression.  Like  most  of 
the  writers  of  the  seventeenth  centmy,  and  the 
court  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tur}',  he  is  an  independent  speller.  Writing  of 
his  work  on  the  Adii"ondacks,  he  sa3's,  "  If  I 
ehould  ever  live  to  get  this  wonderful  thing  writ- 
^n,  I  expect  it  wiU  show  one  thing,  if  no  more ; 


122  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

and  that  is,  that  ever}^  thing  has  an  opposite.  I 
expect  to  show  in  this  that  literature  has  an  oppo- 
site, if  I  do  not  show  an}'  thing  els.  We  could 
not  enjoy  the  blessings  and  happiness  of  riteous- 
ness  if  we  did  not  know  innicuty  was  in  the 
world  :  in  fact,  there  would  be  no  riteousness  with- 
out innicut3\"  Writing  also  of  his  great  enjoy- 
ment of  being  in  the  woods,  especially  since  he 
has  had  the  society  there  of  some  people  he 
names,  he  adds,  "And  since  I  have  Literature, 

I  Siance,  and  Art  all  spread  about  on  the  green 
moss  of  the  mountain  woods  or  the  gravell  banks 
of  a  cristle  stream,  it  seems  like  finding  roses,  hon- 

l  ej'suckels,  and  violets  on  a  crisp  brown  cliff  in 
December.  You  know  I  don't  believe  much*  in 
the  religion  of  seramony  ;  but  any  riteous  thing 
that  has  life  and  spirit  in  it  is  food  for  me.'*  I 
must  not  neglect  to  mention  an  essa}",  continued 
in  several  numbers  of  his  local  paper,  on  "The 
Growth  of  the  Tree,"  in  which  he  demolishes  the 
theory  of  Mr.  Greeley,  whom  he  calls  "one  of 
the  best  vegetable  philosophers,"  about  "growth 
without  seed."     He  treats  of  the  office  of  sap; 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  123 

* '  All  trees  have  some  kind  of  sap  and  some  kind 
of  operation  of  sap  flowing  in  their  season,"  — 
the  dissemination  of  seeds,  the  processes  of 
gi'owth,  the  power  of  heahng  wounds,  the  pro- 
portion of  roots  to  branches,  &c.  Speaking  of 
the  latter,  he  saj's,  "  I  have  thought  it  would  be 
one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  on  earth  to  see  A 
thrifty  gi-owing  maple  or  elm,  that  had  grown  on  a 
deep  soil  interval  to  be  two  feet  in  diameter,  to  be 
raised  clear  into  the  air  with  ever}^  root  and  fibre 
down  to  the  minutest  thread,  all  entirel}'  cleared 
of  soil,  so  that  every  particle  could  be  seen  in  its 
natural  position.  I  think  it  would  astonish  even 
the  wise  ones."  From  his  instinctive  sj'mpathy 
with  nature,  he  often  credits  vegetable  organism 
with  "instinctive  judgment."  "Observation 
teaches  us  that  a  tree  is  given  powerful  instingts, 
which  would  almost  appear  to  amount  to  judg- 
ment in  some  cases,  to  provide  tox  }ts  own  wants 
and  necessities." 

Here  our  stud}^  must  coase.     When  the  prinii 
\i\e  man  comes  into  literature,  he  is  no  lonojer 
primitive. 


nii-^ 
ger  ] 


VI. 


CAMPING   OUT. 


T  seems  to  be  agreed  that  civilization  is 
kept  up  only  b}'  a  constant  effort :  Nature 
claims  its  own  speedilj'  when  the  effort  is 
relaxed.  If  3'ou  clear  a  patch  of  fertile  ground 
in  the  forest,  uproot  the  stumps,  and  plant  it, 
year  after  3^ear,  in  potatoes  and  maize,  3'ou  say 
you  have  subdued  it.  But,  if  3'ou  leave  it  for  a 
season  or  two,  a  kind  of  barbarism  seems  to  steal 
out'  upon  it  from  the  circling  woods  ;  coarse  grass 
and  brambles  cover  it ;  bushes  spring  up  in  a 
wild  tangle ;  the  raspbeny  and  the  blackberry 
flower  and  fruit,  and  the  humorous  bear  feeds 
upon  them.  Tlie  last  state  of  that  ground  is 
worse  than  the  first. 

Perhaps  the  cleared  spot  is   called  Ephesus. 

124 


CAMPING  OUT.  125 


There  is  a  splendid  cit}'  on  the  plain ;  there  are 
temples  and  -theatres  on  the  hills  ;  the  commerce 
of  the  world  seeks  its  port ;  the  luxnr}^  of  the 
Orient  flows  through  its  marble  streets.  You  are 
there  one  da}^  when  the  sea  has  receded :  the 
plain  is  a  pestilent  marsh ;  the  temples,  the 
theatres,  the  loft}'  gates,  have  sunken  and  crum- 
bled, and  the  wild-brier  runs  over  them  ;  and,  as 
3-0U  grow  pensive  in  the  most  desolate  place  in 
the  world,  a  bandit  lounges  out  of  a  tomb,  and 
offers  to  relie-s'e  3'ou  of  all  that  which  creates 
artificial  distinctions  in  societ}'.  The  higher  the  * 
civilization  has  risen,  the  more  abject  is  the  des- 
olation of  barbarism  that  ensues.  The  most 
melanchol}'  spot  in  the  Adirondacks  is  not  a 
tamarack-swamp,  where  the  traveller  wades  in 
moss  and  mire,  and  the  atmosphere  is  composed 
of  equal  active  parts  of  black-flies,  mosquitoes, 
and  midges.  It  is  the  A'illage  of  the  Adu'ondack 
Iron -Works,  where  the  streets  of  2;aunt  houses  arc 
falling  to  pieces,  tenantless ;  the  factor}'- wheels  , 
aavc  stopped  ;  the  fm-nace?  are  in  ruins  ;  the  iron  > 
and  wooden  machinery  is  strewn  about  in  helpless 


126  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

detachment ;  and  heaps  of  charcoal,  ore,  and 
slag,  proclaim  an  arrested  industry.  Beside  this 
deserted  village,  even  Calamit}^  Pond,  shallow, 
sedg}^  with  its  ragged  shores  of  stunted  firs, 
and  its  melancholy  shaft  that  marks  the  spot 
where  the  proprietor  of  the  iron-works  accident- 
ally shot  himself,  is  cheerful. 

The  instinct  of  barbarism  that  leads  people 
periodicall}^  to  throw  aside  the  habits  of  civiliza- 
tion, and  seek  the  freedom  and  discomfort  of  the 
woods,  is  explicable  enough ;  but  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  understand  why  this  passion  should  be 
strongest  in  those  who  are  most  refined,  and  most 
trained  in  intellectual  and  social  fastidiousness. 
Philistinism  and  shodd}'  do  not  like  the  woods, 
unless  it  becomes  fashionable  to  do  so  ;  and  then, 
as  speedily  as  possible,  they  introduce  their  arti- 
ficial luxuries,  and  reduce  the  life  in  the  wilder- 
ness to  the  vulgarity  of  a  well-fed  picnic.  It  is 
tliey  who  have  strewn  the  Adirondacks  with 
paper  :.)llars  and  tin  cans.  The  real  enjo3^ment 
of  camping  and  tramping  in  the  woo'ls  lies  in  a 
return  to  primitive  conditions  of  lodging,  dress 


CAMPING  OUl.  127 


and  food,  in  as  total  an  escape  as  may  be  from 
the  requii'ements  of  civilization.  And  it  remains 
to  be  explained  why  this  is  enjoyed  most  by  those 
who  are  most  highly  civilized.  It  is  wondeiful 
to  see'  how  easily  the  restraints  of  society  fall 
off.  Of  course  it  is  not  true  that  coui'tcsy 
depends  upon  clothes  with  the  best  people  ;  but, 
with  others,  beha^^or  hangs  almost  entirely  upon 
dress.  Many  good  habits  are  easily  got  rid  of 
in  the  woods.  Doubt  sometimes  seems  to  be  felt 
whether  Sunday  is  a  legal  hohday  there.  It  be- 
comes a  question  of  casuistry  with  a  clergymau 
whether  he  may  shoot  at  a  mark  on  Sunday,  if 
none  of  his  congregation  are  present.  He  in- 
tends no  harm :  he  only  gratifies  a  curiosity  to 
see  if  he  can  hit  the  mark.  Where  shall  he  draw 
the  line  ?  Doubtless  he  might  throw  a  stone  at  a 
chipmunk,  or  shout  at  a  loon.  Might  he  fire  at  a 
mark  with  an  au'-gun  that  makes  no  noise  ?  He 
will  not  fish  or  hunt  on  Sunday  (although  he  is 
no  more  likely  to  catch  any  thing  that  day  than 
on  any  other)  ;  but  may  he  eat  trout  that  the 
guide  has  caught  on  Sunday,  if  the  guide  swears 


128  IK  THE  WILDERNESS. 

he  caught  them  Satiirda}'  night  ?  Is  there  such  a 
thhig  as  a  vacation  in  rchgion  ?  How  much  of 
our  vii-tue  do  we  owe  to  inherited  habits  ? 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  whether  this  desire  to 
camp  outside  of  civihzation  is  creditable  to  hu- 
man nature,  or  otherwise.  We  hear  sometimes 
that  the  Turk  has  been  merelj^  camping  for  four 
centuries  in  Europe.  I  suspect  that  man}'  of  us 
are,  after  all,  really  camping  temporarily  in  civil- 
ized conditions;  and  that  going  into  the  wilder- 
ness is  an  escape,  longed  for,  into  our  natui*al 
and  preferred  state.  Consider  what  this  "  camp- 
ing out"  is,  that  is  confessedly  so  agreeable  to 
people  most  delicately  reared.  I  have  no  desire 
to  exaggerate  its  delights. 

The  Adirondack  wilderness  is  essentially  un- 
broken. A  few  bad  roads  that  penetrate  it,  a  few 
jolting  wagons  that  traverse  them,  a  few  barn- 
like  boarding-houses  on  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
wlicre  the  boarders  are  soothed  b}'  patent  coffee, 
and  stimulated  to  unnatural  ga3'et3^  b}'  Japan  tea, 
and  experimented  on  by  unique  cookery,  do  little 
to  destroy  the  savage  fascination  of  the  region 


CAMPING  OUT,  129 


In  half  an  hour,  at  any  point,  one  can  put  him- 
self into  solitude  and  eveiy  desirable  discomfort. 
The  party  that  covets  the  experience  of  the  camp 
comes  down  to  primitive  conditions  of  dress  and 
equipment.  There  are  guides  and  porters  to 
carry  the  blankets  for  beds,  the  raw  provisions, 
and  the  camp  equipage  ;  and  the  motley'  p^i"ty  of 
the  temporarily  decivilized  files  into  the  woods,  ^ 
and  begins,  perhaps  by  a  road,  perhaps  on  a  i^ 
trail,  its  exhilarating  and  weary  march,  y  The 
exhilaration  arises  parti}'  from  the  casting  aside 
of  restraint,  parti}'  from  the  adventure  of  explo- 
ration ;  and  the  weariness,  from  the  interminable 
toil  of  bad  walldng,  a  heav}^  pack,  and  the  gi*im 
monoton}'  of  trees  and  bushes,  that  shut  out  all 
prospect,  except  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the'sk}'. 
Mountains  are  painfull}-  clunbed,  streams  forded, 
lonesome  lakes  paddled  over,  long  and  muddy 
"carries"  traversed.  Fanc}'  this  part}'  the  vie 
tim  of  political  exile,  banished  by  the  law,  and  a 
more  sorrowful  march  could  not  be  imagined ; 
but  the  voluntary  hardship  becomes  pleasure, 
and  it  is  undeniable  that  the  spmts  of  the  parly 
rise  as  the  difficulties  increase. 


130  m  TEE  WILDERNESS, 

For  this  straggling  and  stumbli:jg  band  the 
world  is  young  again :  it  has  come  to  the  begin- 
ning of  things ;  it  has  cut  loose  from  tradition, 
and  is  free  to  make  a  home  anj'where  :  the  move- 
ment has  all  the  promise  of  a  revolution.  All 
this  virginal  freshness  invites  the  primitive  in- 
stincts of  play  and  disorder.  The  free  range 
of  the  forests  suggests  endless  possibilities  of 
exploration  and  possession.  Perhaps  we  are 
treading  where  man  since  the  creation  never 
trod  before  ;  perhaps  the  waters  of  this  bubbling 
spring,  which  we  deepen  by  scraping  out  the 
deca3'ed  leaves  and  the  black  earth,  have  never 
been  tasted  before,  except  by  the  wild  denizens 
of  these  woods.-  We  cross  the  trails  of  lurking 
animals, — paths  that  heighten  our  sense  of 
seclusion  from  the  world.  The  hammering  of 
the  infrequent  woodpecker,  the  call  of  the  lonely 
bird,  the  drumming  of  the  solitary'  partridge,  — 
all  these  sounds  do  but  emphasize  the  loncsomc- 
Dcss  of  nature.  The  roar  of  the  mountain  brook, 
dashing  ()vcr  its  bed  o."  pebbles,  rising  out  of  tlio 
ravine,  and  spreading,  as  it  were,  a  mist  of  sound 


CAMPING  OUT.  131 


through  all  the  forest  (continuous  beating  waves, 
that  have  the  ih3'thm  of  eternity  in  them),  and 
the  fitful  movement  of  the  air-tides  thi'ough  the 
balsams  and  firs  and"  the  giant  pines, — how  these 
oTand  sj'mphonies  shut  out  the  little  exaspera- 
tions of  our  vexed  life  !  -It  seems  easj"  to  begin 
life'  over  again  on  the  simplest  teiTQS.  Probably 
it  is  not  so  much  the  desire  of  the  congregation 
to  escape  from  the  preacher,  or  of  the  preacher 
to  escape  from  himself,  that  cMves  sophisticated 
people  into  the  wilderness,  as  it  is  the  uncon- 
quered  craving  for  primitive  simplicity,  the  revolt 
against  the  everlasting  dress-parade  of  our  civih- 
zation.  From  this  monstrous  pomposit}'  even 
the  artificial  rusticity  of  a  Petit  Trianon  is  a 
iXBhef.  It  was  only  human  nature  that  the  jaded 
Frenchman  of  the  regenc}'  should  run  awa}'  to 
the  New  World,  and  live  in  a  forest-hut  with  an 
Indian  squaw  ;  although  he  found  httle  satisfac- 
tion in  his  act  of  heroism,  unless  it  was  tallied 
about  at  Versailles. 

When  our  trampers  come,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, to  the  bank  of  a  lovely  lake  where  they 


132  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

purpose  to  enter  the  primitive  life,  ever}^  thing  is 
waiting  for  them  in  \drgin  expectation. ^^There  is 
a  little  promontory  jutting  into  the  lake,  and 
sloping  down  to  a  sandy  beach,  on  which  the 
waters  idly  lapse,  and  shoals  of  red-fins  and 
shiners  come  to  gi-eet  the  stranger ;  the  forest 
is  nntonched  b}'  the  axe ;  the  tender  green 
sweeps  the  water's  edge ;  ranlvs  of  slender  firs 
are  marshalled  b}^  the  shore ;  clumps  of  white- 
birch  stems  shine  in  satin  purity  among  the  ever- 
greens ;  the  boles  of  giant  spruces,  maples,  and 
oaks,  lifting  high  their  crowns  cf  foliage,  stretch 
awaj'  in  endless  galleries  and  arcades ;  through 
the  shifting  leaves  the  sunshine  falls  upon  the 
brown  earth ;  overhead  are  fragments  of  blue 
sk}' ;  under  the  boughs  and  in  chance  openings 
appear  the  bluer  lake  and  the  outline  of  the 
gi'acious  mountains.  .'  The  discoverers  of  this 
paradise,  wliich  the}"  have  entered  to  destroy, 
note  the  babbling  of  the  brook  that  flows  close  at 
hand ;  the}'  hear  the  splash  of  the  leaping  fish ; 
they  listen  to  the  sweet,  metalUc  song  of  the 
evening  thrush,    and    the    cliatter    of   the    red 


CAMPIXG  OUT.  133 

squirrel,  who  angrily  challenges  their  right  to  be 
there.  But  the  moment  of  sentiment  passes. 
This  part}-  has  come  here  to  eat  and  to  sleep, 
and  not  to  encourage  Nature  in  her  poetic  atti- 
tudinizing^. 

The  cpot  for  a  shant}*  is  selected.  This  side 
shall  be  its  opening,  towards  the  lake  ;  and  in 
front  of  it  the  fire,  so  that  the  smoke  shall  drift 
into  the  hut,  and  discourage  the  mosquitoes ; 
yonder  shall  bo  the  cook's  fire  and  the  path  to 
the  spring.  The  whole  colony  bestir  themselves 
in  the  foundation  of  a  new  home,  —  an  enterprise 
that  has  all  the  fascination,  and  none  of  the 
danger,  of  a  veritable  new  settlement  in  the  wil- 
derness.^ The  axes  of  tlie  guides  resound  in  the 
eclioing  spaces ;  great  trunks  fall  with  a  crash ; 
vistas  arc  opened  towards  the  lake  and  the  moun- 
tains. The  spot  for  the  shanty  is  cleared  of 
underbrush ;  forked  stakes  arc  driven  into  the 
ground,  cross-pieces  are  laid  on  them,  and  poles 
sloping  back  to  the  ground.  In  va\  incredi1:»lG 
space  of  time  there  is  the  skeleton  of  a  house, 
which  is  entirel}'  open  in  front.     The  roof  and 


134  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

sides  must  be  covered.  For  this  purpose  the 
trunks  of  groat  spruces  are  skinned.  Tlie  wood- 
man rims  the  bark  near  the  foot  of  the  tree,  aid 
again  six  feet  above,  and  slashes  it  perpendicu- 
larly ;  then,  with  a  blunt  stick,  he  crowds  off  this 
thick  hide  exact I3'  as  an  ox  is  skinned.  It  needs 
but  a  few  of  these  skins  to  cover  the  roof;  and  ' 
they  make  a  perfectly  water-tight  roof,  except 
when  it  rains.  '  Meantime,  busy  hands  have 
gathered  boughs  of  the  spruce  and  the  feathery 
balsam,  and  shingled  the  ground  underneath  tlie 
shanty  for  a  bed.  It  is  an  aromatic  bed :  in 
theory  it  is  elastic  and  consoling.  Upon  it  are 
spread  the  blankets.  The  sleepers,  of  all  sexes 
and  ages,  are  to  lie  there  in  a  row,  their  feet  to 
the  fire,  and  their  heads  under  the  edge  of  the 
sloping  roof.  Nothing  could  be  better  contrived. 
The  fire  is  in  front :  it  is  not  a  fire,  but  a  conQa- 
gration  —  a  vast  heap  of  green  logs  set  on  fire  — 
of  pitch,  and  split  dead-wood,  and  crackling  bal- 
sams, raging  and  roaring.  B}^  the  time  twilight 
falls,  the  cook  has  prepared  supper.  Every  thing 
iias  been  cooked   in  a  tin  pail  and  a  skillet,— 


1 


CAMPING  OUT.  135 


potatoes,  tea,  pork,  mutton,  slapjacks.  You 
wondo]'  how  CA'ory  thing  could  have  been  prepared 
in  so  Itw  utensils.  ^\Tien  3*ou  eat,  the  wonder 
ceases  :  e^-er^^  thing  might  have  been  cooked  in 
on(;  pail.  It  is  a  noble  meal ;  and  noblj'  is  it 
disposed  of  In*  these  amateur  savages,  sitting 
about  upon  logs  and  roots  of  trees.  Xever  were 
there  such  potatoes,  never  beans  that  seemed  to 
have  more  of  the  bean  in  them,  never  such  cm-ly 
jDork,  never  trout  with  more  Indian-meal  on 
them,  never  mutton  more  distinctl}'  sheep}' ;  and 
the  tea,  drunk  out  of  a  tin  cup,  w'ith  a  lump  of 
maple-sugar  dissolved  in  it, — it  is  the  sort  of 
tea  that  takes  hold,  lifts  the  hair,  and  disposes 
the  drinker  to  anecdote  and  hilariousness.  There 
is  no  deception  about  it :  it  tastes  of  tannin  and 
spruce  and  creosote.  Ever}^  thing,  in  short,  has 
the  flavor  of  the  wilderness  and  a  free  life.  It  is 
idy'.lic.  And  ^Tt,  with  all  our  sentimentahty, 
there  is  nothing  feeble  about  the  cooking.  The 
slapjacks  are  a  solid  job  of  work,  made  to  last, 
and  not  go  to  pieces  in  a  person's  stomach  lil^e 
a  trivial  bun  :  we  might  record  on  them,  in  cunei- 


i36  IN  THE  WILDERKESS. 

form  characters,  our  incipient  civilization ;  and 
fntiirc  generations  would  doubtless  turn  them  up 
as  Acadian  bricks.  Good,  robust  victuals  are 
what  the  primitive  man  wants. 

Darkness  falls  suddenly'.  Outside  the  ring  of 
Hght  from  our  conllagration  the  woods  are  black. 
There  is  a  tremendous  impression  of  isolation 
and  lonesomeness  in  our  situation.  AYe  are  the 
prisoners  of  the  night.  The  woods  never  seemed 
so  vast  and  m^'sterious.  The  trees  are  gigantic. 
There  are  noises  that  we  do  not  understand,  — 
m^'sterious  winds  passing  overhead,  and  rambling 
in  the  great  galleries,  tree-trunks  grinding  against 
each  other,  undehnablc  stirs  and  uneasinesses. 
The  shapes  of  those  who  pass  into  the  dimness 
are  outlined  in  monstrous  proportions.  The 
spectres,  seated  about  in  the  glare  of  the  fire, 
talk  about  appearances  and  presentiments  and 
religion.  The  guides  cheer  the  night  with  bear- 
fights,  and  catamount  encounters,  and  frozen-to- 
dealh  cxi)eriences,  and  simple  tales  of  great 
piolixit}'  and  no  point,  and  jokes  of  primitive 
Uicidit}'.     AVe  hear  catamounts,  and  the  stealtli^ 


CAMPING  OUT.  137 


tread  of  things  in  the  leaves,  and  the  hooting  of 
owls,  and,  when  the  moon  rises,  the  laughter  of 
the  loon.  Eveiy  thing  is  strojige,  spectroJ,  fasci- 
nacing. 

By  and  b}^  we  get  our  positions  in  the  shnnty 
for  the  night,  and  arrange  the  row  of  sleepers. 
The  shant}'  has  become  a  smoke-house  b}'  this 
time :  waves  of  smoke  roll  into  it  from  the  fire. 
It  is  onh'  hy  Mng  down,  and  getting  the  head 
well  under  the  eaves,  that  one  can  breathe.  Xo 
one  can  find  her  "  things  ;  "  nobody-  has  a  ^Mllow. 
At  length  the  row  is  laid  out,  with  the  solemn 
protestation  of  intention  to  sleep.  The  wind, 
shifting,  drives  away  the  smoke.  Good-night  is 
said  a  hundred  times ;  positions  are  re-adjusted, 
more  last  words,  new  shifting  about,  final  re- 
marks ;  it  is  all  so  comfortable  and  romantic ; 
and  then  silence.  Silence  continues  for  a  minute. 
The  fire  fiashes  up  ;  all  the  row  of  heads  is  Ufted 
up  simultaneously  to  watch  it ;  showers  of  sporks 
sail  aloft  into  the  blue  night ;  the  vast  vault  of 
greener}^  is  a  fauy  spectacle.  How  the  spa  ks 
mount   and   twinkle  and  disappear  like  tropica] 


138  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

fire-flies,  and  all  the  leaves  murmur,  and  clap 
their  hands  !  Some  of  the  sparks  do  not  go  out : 
we  see  them  flaming  in  the  sk}^  when  the  flame 
of  the  fire  has  died  down.  Well,  good-night, 
good-night.  More  folding  of  the  arms  to  sleep  ; 
more  grumbling  about  the  hardness  of  a  hand- 
bag, or  the  insufficienc}'  of  a  pocket-handkerchief, 
for  a  pillow.  Good-night.  Was  that  a  remark  ? 
—  something  about  a  root,  a  stub  in  the  ground 
sticking  into  the  back.  "  You  couldn't  he  along 
a  hair?"  —  "Well,  no:  here's  another  stub." 
It  needs  but  a  moment  for  the  conversation  to 
become  general,  — about  roots  under  the  shoulder, 
stubs  in  the  back,  a  ridge  on  which  it  is  impos- 
sible for  the  sleeper  to  balance,  the  non-elasticity 
of  boughs,  the  hardness  of  the  ground,  the  heat, 
.he  smoke,  the  chilly  air.  Subjects  of  remarks 
multiply.  The  whole  camp  is  awake,  and  chat- 
tering hke  an  aviary.  The  owl  is  also  awake ; 
but  the  guides  who  are  asleep  outside  make  more 
noise  than  the  owls.  Water  is  wanted,  and  is 
handeil  about  in  a  dipper.  Everybody  is  yawn- 
ing ;  everybody  is  now  determined  to  go  to  sleep 


CAMPING  OUT.  139 

\t  good  earnest.  A  last  good-night.  There  is 
in  appalling  silence.  It  is  interrupted  in  the 
aiost  natural  waj'  in  the  world.  Somebod}'  hag 
,^ot  the  start,  and  gone  to  sleep.  He  proclaims 
:lie  fact.  He  seems  to  have  been  brought  up  on 
the  seashore,  and  to  know  how  to  make  all  the 
deep-toned  noises  of  the  restless  ocean.  He  is 
also  like  a  war-horse  ;  or,  it  is  suggested,  like  a 
saw-horse.  How  malignantl}'  he  snorts,  and 
breaks  off  short,  and  at  once  begins  again  in 
another  ke}' !     One  head  is  raised  after  another. 

"Who  is  that?" 

''  Somebod}'  punch  him." 

"  Turn  him  over." 

"  Reason  with  him." 

The  sleeper  is  turned  over.  The  turn  was  a 
mistake.  He  was  before,  it  appears,  on  his  most 
agreeable  side.  The  camp  rises  in  indignation. 
The  sleeper  sits  up  in  bsT^Hderment.  Before  he 
can  go  off  again,  two  or  three  others  have  pre- 
ceded him.  The}'  are  all  alike.  You  never  ci\n 
judge  what  a  person  is  when  he  is  awake.  TJiere 
are  here  half  a  dozen  disturbers  of  the  peace  who 


140  JiY  THE  WILDERKESS. 

* 

Gliould  be  put  in  solitfiiy  confinement.  At  mid- 
night, when  a  philosopher  crawls  out  to  sit  on  a 
log  b^'  the  fii'e,  and  smoke  a  pipe,  a  duct  in  tenor 
and  mezzo-soprano  is  going  on  in  the  shanty, 
with  a  chorus  alwa3's  coming  in  at  the  wrong  time. 
Those  who  are  not  asleep  want  to  know  wh}'  the 
smoker  doesn't  go  to  bed.  He  is  requested  to 
get  some  water,  to  throw  on  another  log,  to  see 
what  tune  it  is,  to  note  whether  it  looks  like  rain. 
A  buzz  of  conversation  arises.  She  is  sure  she 
heard  something  behind  the  shant}'.  He  says  it 
is  all  nonsense.  "  Perhaps,  however,  it  might  be 
a  mouse." 

' '  Mercy  !     Are  there  mice  ?  ' ' 

"Plenty." 

"Then  that's  what  I  heard  nibbling  by  my 
head.     I  sha'n't  sleep  a  winlc  !     Do  they  bite?  " 

"No,  they  nibble;  scai'cely  ever  take  a  full 
bite  out." 

"  It's  horrid  !  " 

Towards  morning  it  grows  chilty ;  the  guides 
have  let  the  fire  go  out ;  the  blanlicts  will  slip 
down.  Aiixict3'  begins  to  be  expressed  obout  the 
dawn. 


■i 

1 


CAMPING  OUT.  141 


"  What  time  docs  the  sun  rise?  " 

"  Awful  cai'ly.     Did  you  sleep?  " 

*'  Not  a,  wink.     And  30U?  " 

"In  spots.  I'm  going-  to  dig  up  this  root  as 
Boon  as  it  is  light  enough." 

"  See  that  mist  on  the  lake,  and  the  light  just 
coming  on  the  Gothics  !  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so 
cold  :  all  the  first  part  of  the  night  I  w^as  roasted." 

"  What  were  the}'  tallving  about  all  night?  " 

When  the  party  crawls  out  to  the  early  break- 
fast, after  it  has  washed  its  faces  in  the  lake,  it 
is  disorganized,  but  cheerful.  Nobod}'  admits 
much  sleep  ;  but  cverybod}'  is  refreshed,  and  de- 
clares it  delightful.  It  is  the  fresh  air  all  night 
that  invigorates ;  or  maybe  it  is  the  tea,  or  the 
slapjacks.  The  guides  ha^'c  erected  a  table  of 
spruce  bark,  wuu  benches  at  the  sides ;  so  that 
breakfast  is  taken  in  form.  It  is  served  on  tin 
plates  and  oak  chips.  After  In-eakfast  begins  the 
day's  work.  It  may  be  a  mountain-climbing  ex- 
pedition, or  rowing  and  anghng  in  the  lake,  or 
fishing  for  trout  in  some  stream  two  or  three  jniles 
distant.     Nobody  can  stir  far  from  camp  without 


142  m  THE  WILDERNESS. 

a  guide.  Hammocks  are  swung,  bowers  are 
built,  novel-reading  begins,  worsted  work  ap- 
pears, cards  are  shuffled  and  dealt.  The  day 
passes  in  absolute  freedom  from  responsibilit}"  to 
one's  self.  At  night,  when  the  expeditions  re- 
turn, the  camp  resumes  its  animation.  Adven- 
tures are  recounted,  every  statement  of  the 
narrator  being  disputed  and  argued.  Ever3-bod3' 
has  become  an  adept  in  wood-craft ;  but  nobody 
credits  his  neighbor  with  like  instinct.  Society 
getting  resolved  into  its  elements,  confidence  is 
gone. 

Whilst  the  hilarious  party  are  at  supper,  a  drop 
or  two  of  rain  falls.  The  head  guide  is  appealed 
to.  Is  it  going  to  rain?  He  sa3's  it  does  rain. 
But  will  it  be  a  rainy  night?  The  guide  goes 
down  to  the  lake,  looks  at  the  sk}^,  and  concludes, 
that,  if  the  wind  shifts  a  p'int  more,  there  is  no 
telhng  what  sort  of  weather  we  shall  have.  Mean- 
time the  drops  patter  thicker  on  the  leaves  over- 
head, anti  the  leaves,  ii.  turn,  pass  the  watc.:  down 
to  the  table  ;  the  sk^*  darkens  ;  the  wind  rises ; 
there  is  a  kind  of  shiver  in  the  woods ;  and  we 


CAMPmO  OUT.  143 


Bcud  away  into  the  shant}^,  taking  the  remains  of 
our  supper,  and  eating  it  as  best  we  can.  The 
rain  increases.  The  fire  sputters  and  fumes.  All 
the  trees  are  dripping,  dripping,  and  the  ground 
is  wet.  We  cannot  step  out-doors  without  get- 
ting a  drenching.  Lilie  sheep,  we  are  penned  in 
the  httle  hut,  where  no  one  can  stand  erect. 
The  rain  swirls  into  the  open  front,  and  wets 
the  bottom  of  the  blankets.  The  smoke  drives 
in.  We  cmi  up,  and  enjoj^  ourselves.  The 
guides  at  length  conclude  that  it  is  going  to  be 
damp.  The  dismal  situation  sets  us  all  into  good 
spirits  ;  and  it  is  later  than  the  night  before  when 
we  crawl  under  our  blankets,  sure  this  time  of  a 
sound  sleep,  lulled  by  the  storm  and  the  rain  re- 
sounding on  the  bark  roof.  How  much  better  off 
we  are  than  mau}^  a  shelterless  wretch !  We  are 
as  snug  as  dr}'  herrings.  At  the  moment,  how- 
ever, of  dropping  off  to  sleep,  somebody  unfortu- 
nately notes  a  drop  of  water  on  his  face  ;  this  is 
followed  by  another  drop  ;  in  an  instant  a  stream 
is  estabUshed.  He  moves  his  head  to  a  dry  place. 
Scarcely  has  he  done  so,  when  he  feels  a  damp- 


144  m  THE  WILDEIINESS. 

ness  ill  his  back.  Ivcacliing  his  hand  outside, 
he  finds  a  puddle  of  -u-atcr  soakhig  through  his 
blanket.  B}^  this  time,  somcbod}"  inquires  if 
it  is  possible  that  the  roof  leaks.  One  man  has 
a  stream  of  water  under  him  ;  another  says  it  is 
coming  into  his  ear.  The  roof  appears  to  be  a 
discriminating  sieve.  Those  who  are  dry  see  no 
need  of  such  a  fuss.  The  man  in  the  corner 
spreads  his  umbrella,  and  the  protective  measure 
is  resented  b}-  his  neighbor.  In  the  darkness 
there  is  recrimination.  One  of  the  guides,  who 
is  summoned,  suggests  that  the  rubber  blankets 
be  passed  out,  and  spread  over  the  roof.  The  in- 
mates dislike  the  proposal,  saying  that  a  shower- 
bath  is  no  worse  than  a  tub-bath.  The  rain  con- 
tinues to  soak  down.  The  fire  is  onl}'  half  alivc^ 
The  bedding  is  damp.  Some  sit  up,  if  they  cud 
find  a  diT  spot  to  sit  on,  and  smoke.  Heartless 
observations  are  made.  A  few  sleep.  And  the 
niglit  wears  on.  The  morning  opens  cheerless. 
TJic  sky  is  still  leaking,  and  so  is  the  shanty. 
The  guides  bring  in  a  half-cooked  breakfast.  The 
roof  is  patched  up.     There  are  reviving  signs  of 


CAMPING  OUT.  145 


breaking  awaj-,  delusive  signs  that  create  mo- 
mentarj'  exhilaration.  Even  if  the  stoiTQ  clears, 
the  woods  are  soaked.  There  is  no  chance  of 
stirring.     The  world  is  onl}'  ten  feet  square. 

Tliis  life,  without  responsibilit}"  or  clean  clothes, 
may  continue  as  long  as  the  reader  desii'cs. 
There  are  those  who  would  like  to  live  in  this  free     ^ 

fashion  forever,  takinor  rain  and  sun  as  heaven 

I 

pleases  ;  and  there  are  some  souls  so  constituted 

that  they  cannot  exist  more  than  three  days  with-  >. 
out  their  worldly  baggage.  Taking  the  party 
altogether,  from  one  cause  or  another  it  is  likely 
to  strike  camp  sooner  than  was  intended.  And 
the  stricken  camp  is  a  melancholy  sight.  The 
woods  have  been  despoiled  ;  the  stumps  are  ugly  ; 
the  bushes  are  scorched ;  the  pine-leaf-strewn 
earth  is  trodden  into  mii'C  ;  the  landing  looks  like 
a  cattle-ford  ;  the  ground  is  littered  with  all  the 
unsightl}'  debris  of  a  hand-to-hand  Ufe  ;  the  dis- 
mantled shant}^  is  a  shabby  object ;  the  charred 
and  blackened  logs,  where  the  fire  blazed,  sug- 
gest the  extinction  of  family  life.  Man  has 
wrought  his  usual  wrong  upon  Natm-e,  and  he  can 


146  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

save  his  self-respect  oiilj'  by  moving  to  virgin 
forests. 

And  move  to  them  he  will,  the  next  season,  if 
not  this.  For  he  who  has  once  experienced  the 
fascination  of  the  woods-life  never  escapes  its  en- 
ticement :  in  the  memory  nothing  remains  but  its 
charm. 


VII. 


A    WILDERNESS    ROMANCE. 


T  the  south  end  of  Keene  Valle}-,  in  the 
Aclironclacks,  stands  Noon  Mark,  a 
shapely  peak  thirt^'-five  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  which,  with  the  aid  of  the  sun, 
tells  the  Keene  people  Tvhen  it  is  time  to  eat 
dinner.  From  its  summit  you  look  south  into  a 
vast  wilderness  basin,  a  great  stretch  of  forest 
little  trodden,  and  out  of  whose  bosom  3'ou  can 
hear  from  the  heights  on  a  still  day  the  loud 
murmur  of  the  Boquet.  This  basin  of  unbroken 
green  rises  awa}-  to  the  south  and  south-east  into 
the  rocky  heights  of  Dix's  Peak  and  Nipple  Top, 
—  the  latter  a  local  name  which  neither  the 
mountain  nor  the  fastidious  tourist  is  able  to 
shake   off.     Indeed,    so    long   as   the   mountain 

147 


148  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

keeps  its  present  shape  as  seen  from  the  south- 
ern lowlands,  it  cannot  get  on  without  this  name. 

These  two  mountains,  which  belong  to  the 
great  system  of  which  Marc}^  is  the  giant  centre, 
and  are  iii  the  neighborhood  of  five  thousand  feet 
high,  on  the  southern  outposts  of  the  great 
mountains,  form  the  gate-posts  of  the  pass  into 
the  south  country.  This  opening  between  them 
is  called  Hunter's  Pass.  It  is  the  most  elevated 
and  one  of  the  wildest  of  the  mountain  passes. 
Its  summit  is  thirty-five  hundred  feet  high.  In 
former  years  it  is  presumed  the  hunters  occa- 
sionally followed  the  game  through  ;  but  latterly 
it  is  rare  to  find  a  guide  who  has  been  that  way, 
and  the  tin-can  and  paper- collar  tourists  have 
not  3'et  made  it  a  runwa}-.  This  seclusion  is  due 
not  to  an}'  inherent  difl3culty  of  travel,  but  to  the 
fact  that  it  lies  a  little  out  of  the  way. 

We  went  through  it  last  summer  ;  making  our 
wa}^  into  the  jaws  from  the  foot  of  the  great 
slides  on  Dix,  keeping  along  the  ragged  spurs  of 
the  mountain  through  the  virgin  forest.  The 
pass  is  narrow,  walled  in  on  each  side  by  preci- 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  149 

pices  of  granite,  and  bloclvcd  up  -svitli  bowlders 
and  fallen  trees,  and  beset  witli  pitfalls  in  the 
roads  ingeniously  covered  with  fair-seeming 
moss.  When  the  climber  occasionally'  loses 
sight  of  a  leg  in  one  of  tliese  treacherous  holes, 
and  feels  a  cold  sensation  in  his  foot,  he  learns 
that  he  has  dipped  into  the  sources  of  the  Bo- 
quet,  which  emerges  lower  down  into  falls  and 
rapids,  and,  recruited  b}-  creeping  tributaries, 
goes  brawling  through  the  forest  basin,  and  at 
last  comes  out  an  amiable  and  boat-bearing 
stream  in  the  vallc}'  of  Elizabeth  Town.  From 
the  summit  another  rivulet  trickles  away  to  the 
south,  and  finds  its  wa}- through  a  frightful  tama- 
rack swamp,  and  through  woods  scarred  by  ruth- 
less lumbering,  to  Mud  Pond,  a  quiet  bod3-  of 
water,  with  a  ghasth*  fringe  of  dead  trees,  upon 
which  people  of  grand  intentions  and  weak 
vocabular}'  are  trying  to  fix  the  name  of  Elk 
Lake.  The  descent  of  the  pass  on  that  side  is 
precipitous  and  exciting.  The  wa}'  is  in  the 
stream  itself;  and  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
distance  we  swung  ourselves  down  the  faces  of 


150  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

considerable  falls,  and  tumbled  down  cascades. 
The  descent,  however,  was  made  easy  by  the 
fact  that  it  rained,  and  e\evy  footstep  was  yield- 
ing and  slipper}'.  Why  sane  people,  often 
church-members  respectably  connected,  will  sub- 
ject themselves  to  this  sort  of  treatment,  —  be 
wet  to  the  skin,  bruised  by  the  rocks,  and  flung 
about  among  the  bushes  and  dead  wood  until  the 
most  necessary  part  of  their  apparel  hangs  in 
shreds,  —  is  one  of  the  delightful  mj'steries  of 
these  woods.  I  suspect  that  ever}^  man  is  at 
heart  a  roving  animal,  and  likes,  at  intervals,  to 
revert  to  the  condition  of  the  bear  and  the 
catamount. 

There  is  no  trail  through  Hunter's  Pass, 
which,  as  I  have  intimated,  is  the  least  fre- 
quented portion  of  this  wilderness.  Yet  we 
were  surprised  to  find  a  well-beaten  path  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  way  and  wherever  a  path 
is  possible.  It  was  not  a  mere  deer's  runway : 
these  are  found  evcrj'whcrc  in  the  mountains. 
It  is  trodden  by  other  and  larger  animals,  and 
Is,  no  doubt,  the  highway  of  beasts.     It  bears 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  151 

.marks  of  having  been  so  for  a  long  period,  and 
probabl}'  a  period  long  ago.  Large  animals  are 
not  common  in  these  woods  now,  and  3'ou  seldom 
meet  an}'  thing  fiercer  than  the  timid  deer  and 
the  gentle  bear.  Bat  in  days  gone  b}^  Hunter's 
Pass  was  the  highway  of  the  whole  caravan  of 
animals  who  were  continually  going  backwards 
and  forwards,  in  the  aimless,  roaming  way  that 
beasts  have,  between  Mud  Pond  and  the  Boquet 
Basin.  I  think  I  can  see  now  the  procession  of 
them  between  the  heights  of  Dix  and  Nipple 
Top ;  the  elli  and  the  moose  shambUng  along, 
cropping  the  twigs ;  the  heavy  bear  lounging  by 
with  his  exploring  nose ;  the  frightened  deer 
trembhng  at  every  twig  that  snapped  beneath 
his  little  hoofs,  intent  on  the  lilj'-pads  of  the 
pond ;  the  raccoon  and  the  hedgehog,  sidling 
along ;  and  the  velvet-footed  panther,  insouciant 
and  conscienceless,  scenting  the  path  with  a 
curious  glow  in  his  e3'e,  or  crouching  in  an  over- 
hanging tree  lesidy  to  drop  into  the  procession  at 
the  right  moment.  Night  and  day,  3'ear  after 
year,  I  see  them  going  b}-,  watched  by  the  red 


152  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

fox  and  the  comfortabl}'  clad  sable,  and  grinned 
at  b}'  the  black  cat, — the  innocent,  the  vicious, 
the  timid  and  the  savage,  the  sh}'  and  the  bold, 
the  cliattering  slanderer  and  the  screaming 
prowler,  the  industrious  and  the  peaceful,  the 
tree-top  critic  and  the  crawling  biter, — just  as 
it  is  elsewhere.  It  makes  me  blush  for  my' 
species  when  I  think  of  it.  This  charming 
societj'  is  nearl}-  extinct  now :  of  the  larger  ani- 
mals there  onl}^  remain  the  bear,  who  minds  his 
own  business  more  thoroughl}''  than  an}^  person  I 
know,  and  the  deer,  who  would  like  to  be  friendly 
with  men,  but  whose  winning  face  and  gentle 
ways  are  no  protection  from  the  savageness  of 
man,  and  who  is  treated  with  the  same  unpit3'ing 
destruction  as  the  snarling  catamount.  I  have 
read  in  histor}'  that  the  amiable  natives  of  Ilis- 
paniola  fared  no  better  at  the  hands  of  the  brutal 
Spaniards  than  the  fierce  and  warlike  Caribs. 
As  society  is  at  present  constituted  in  Christian 
countries,  I  would  rather  for  m}'  own  securit}'  be 
a  cougar  than  a  fawn. 

There  is  not  much  of  romantic  interest  iu  the 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  153 

Adirondacks.  Out  of  the  books  of  daring  trav- 
ellers, notbini?.  I  do  not  know  that  the  Keene 
Valle}'  has  an}'  histor}-.  The  mountains  alwa^'s 
stood  here,  and  the  Au  Sable,  floTving  now  in 
shallows  and  now  in  rippling  reaches  over  the 
sands  and  pebbles,  has  for  ages  filled  the  air  with 
continuous  and  soothing  sounds.  Before  the 
Vermonters  broke  into  it  some  three-quarters  of 
a  centur}'  ago,  and  made  meadows  of  its  bottoms 
and  sugar-camps  of  its  fringing  woods,  I  suppose 
the  red  Indian  lived  here  in  his  usual  discomfort, 
and  was  as  restless  as  his  successors,  the  summer 
boarders.  But  the  streams  were  full  of  trout 
then,  and  the  moose  and  the  elk  left  their  broad 
tracks  on  the  sands  of  the  river.  But  of  the 
Indian  there  is  no  trace.  There  is  a  mound  in 
the  valle}',  much  like  a  Tel  in  the  countr}'  of 
Bashan  bej'ond  the  Jordan,  that  ma}'  have  been 
built  b}'  some  pre-historic  race,  and  may  contain 
treasure  and  the  seated  figure  of  a  preserved 
chieftain  on  his  slow  way  to  Paradise.  "What  the 
gentle  and  accomplished  race  of  the  Mound- 
Builders  should  want  in  this  savage  region  where 


154  TN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

the  frost  kills  the  early  potatoes  and  stunts  the 
scant}'  oats,  I  do  not  know.  I  have  seen  no 
trace  of  tliem.,  except  this  Tel,  and  one  other 
slight  relic,  which  came  to  light  last  summer,  and 
is  not  enough  to  found  the  history  of  a  race 
upon. 

Some  workingmen,  getting  stone  from  the  hill- 
side on  one  of  the  httle  plateaus,  for  a  house- 
cellar,  discovered,  partty  embedded,  a  piece  of 
pottery  unique  in  this  region.  With  the  unerring 
instinct  of  workmen  in  regard  to  antiquities,  they 
thrust  a  crowbar  through  it,  and  broke  the  bowl 
into  several  pieces.  The  joint  fragments,  how- 
ever, give  us  the  form  of  the  dish.  It  is  a  bowl 
about  nine  inches  high  and  eight  inches  across, 
made  of  red  clay,  baked  but  not  glazed.  The 
bottom  is  round,  the  top  flares  into  four  corners, 
and  the  rim  is  rudely  but  rather  artistically  orna- 
mented with  criss-cross  scratches  made  when  the 
cla}'  was  soft.  The  vessel  is  made  of  cla}'  not 
found  about  here,  and  it  is  one  that  the  Indians 
formerly  living  here  could  not  form.  Was  it 
brought  here  by  roving  Indians  who  may  have 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  155 

made  an  expedition  to  the  Ohio ;  was  it  passed 
from  tribe  to  tribe  ;  or  did  it  belong  to  i\  race 
that  occupied  the  countiy  before  the  Indian,  and 
-who  have  left  traces  of  their  civilized  skill  in  pot- 
ter}' scattered  all  over  the  continent? 

If  I  could  establish  the  fact  that  this  jar  was 
made  b}'  a  pre-historic  race,  we  should  then  have 
four  generations  in  this  lovel}'  valle}' : — the  amia- 
ble Pre-Historic  people  (whose  gentle  descend- 
ants were  probabl}'  killed  by  the  Spaniards  in  the 
West  Indies)  ;  the  Red  Indians  ;  the  Keene  Flat- 
ers  (from  Vermont)  ;  and  the  Summer  Boarders, 
to  sa}'  nothing  of  the  various  races  of  animals 
who  have  been  unable  to  live  here  since  the  ad- 
vent of  the  Summer  Boarders,  the  vaL'ey  tciug 
not  productive  enough  to  sustain  both.  This 
last  incursion  has  been  more  destructive  to  the 
noble  serenit}'  of  the  forest  than  all  the  pre- 
ceding. 

But  we  are  wandering  from  Hunter's  Pass. 
The  western  walls  of  it  are  formed  b}-  the  preci- 
pices of  Nipple  Top,  not  so  striking  nor  so  bare 
as  the  great  slides  of  Dix  which  glisten  in  the 


156  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

sun  like  silver,  but  rough  and  repelling,  and  con- 
sequentl}'  alluring.  I  have  a  great  desire  to 
scale  them.  I  have  al\va3's  had  an  unreasonable 
wish  to  explore  the  rough  summit  of  this  crabbed 
hill,  which  is  too  broken  and  jagged  for  pleasure 
and  not  high  enough  for  glor}-.  This  desire  was 
stimulated  b}'  a  legend  related  b}'  our  guide  that 
night  in  the  Mud  Pond  cabin.  The  guide  had 
never  been  through  the  pass  before  ;  although  he 
was  familiar  with  the  region,  and  had  ascended 
Kipple  Top  in  the  winter  in  pursuit  of  the  sable. 
The  story  he  told  doesn't  amount  to  much, — 
none  of  the  guides'  stories  do,  faithful]}^  reported, 
—  and  I  should  not  have  believed  it  if  I  had  not 
bad  a  good  deal  of  leisure  on  ni}'  hands  at  the 
time,  and  been  of  a  willing  mind,  and  I  may 
say  in  rather  of  a  starved  condition  as  to  any 
romance  in  this  region. 

The  guide  said  then  —  and  he  mentioned  it 
casuallj^  in  reply  to  our  inquiries  about  ascend- 
ing the  mountain  —  that  there  was  a  cave  high 
up  among  llie  precipices  on  the  south-east  side 
of  Nipple   Top.      He   scarcely   volunteered   the 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  157 

information,  and  Tvitli  seeming  reluctance  gave 
113  an}-  particulars  about  it.  I  always  admire  this 
iirt  by  which  the  acconiplished  stor3--teller  lets 
his  listener  drag  the  reluctant  talo  of  the  marvel- 
lous from  him,  and  makes  you  in  a  manner  re- 
sponsible for  its  improbabilit}'.  If  this  is  well 
managed,  the  listener  is  alwa^'s  eager  to  believe  a 
great  deal  more  than  the  romancer  seems  "willing 
to  tell,  and  alwa3's  resents  the  assumed  reserva- 
tions and  doubts  of  the  latter. 

There  were  strange  reports  about  this  cave 
when  the  old  guide  was  a  boj',  and  even  then  its 
very  existence  had  become  legendarj'.  Xobody 
knew  exacth'  where  it  was,  but  there  was  no 
doubt  that  it  had  been  inhabited.  Hunters  in 
the  forests  south  of  Bix  had  seen  a  light  late  at 
night  twinkling  through  the  trees  high  up  the 
mountain,  and  now  and  then  a  rudd}^  glare  as 
from  the  flaring-up  of  a  furnace.  Settlers  were 
few  in  the  wilderness  then,  and  all  the  inhabitants 
were  well  known.  If  the  cave  was  inhabited,  it 
must  be  l)v  strangers,  and  b}'  men  who  had  some 
Becret    purpose    in    seeking   this   seclusion   and 


158  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

eluding  observation.  If  suspicious  characters 
were  seen  about  Port  Hemy,  or  if  anj'  such 
landed  from  the  steamers  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Champlain,  it  was  impossible  to  identify'  them 
with  these  invaders  who  were  never  seen.  Their 
not  being  seen  did  not,  however,  prevent  the 
growth  of  the  belief  in  their  existence.  Little 
indications  and  rumors,  each  trivial  in  itself,  be- 
came a  mass  of  testimony  that  could  not  be  dis- 
f)0sed  of  because  of  its  very  indefiniteness,  but 
which  appealed  strongty  to  man's  noblest  faculty, 
his  imagination,  or  credulity'. 

The  cave  existed  ;  and  it  was  inhabited  by  men 
who  came  and  went  on  mysterious  errands,  and 
transacted  their  business  b}'  night.  AVhat  this 
band  of  adventurers  or  desperadoes  lived  on, 
how  they  conve3'ed  their  food  through  the  track- 
less woods  to  their  high  e3'rie,  and  what  could 
induce  men  to  seek  such  a  retreat,  were  questions 
discussed,  but  never  settled.  They  might  be  ban- 
ditti ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  plunder  in  these 
savage  Avilds,  and,  in  fact,  robberies  and  raids, 
either  in  tlie  settlements  of  the  hills  or  the  dis- 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  15S 

tant  lake  shore  were  unknown.  In  another  age, 
these  might  have  been  hermits,  hoi}'  men  who 
had  retired  from  the  world  to  feed  the  vanity  of 
their  godliness  in  a  spot  where  they  were  subject 
neither  to  interruption  nor  comparison ;  they 
would  have  had  a  shrine  in  the  cave,  and  an 
image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  with  a  lamp  always 
burning  before  it  and  sending  out  its  mellow  light 
over  the  savage  waste.  A  more  probable  notion 
was  that  they  were  romantic  Frenchmen  who  had 
grown  weary  of  vice  and  refinement  together,  — 
possibly  princes,  expectants  of  the  throne,  Bour- 
bon remainders,  named  Williams  or  otherwise, 
uuhatched  eggs,  so  to  speak,  of  kings,  who  had 
withdrawn  out  of  observation  to  wait  for  the 
next  turn-over  in  Paris.  Frenchmen  do  such 
things.  If  they  were  not  Frenchmen,  they 
might  be  horse-thieves  or  criminals,  escaped  from 
justice  or  from  the  friendl}'  state-prison  of  New 
York.  This  last  supposition  was,  however,  more 
violent  than  the  others,  or  seems  so  to  us  in  this 
day  of  grace.  For  what  well-brought-up  New 
York  ciiminal  would  be  so  insane  as  t4>  run  awav 


IGO  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

from  his  political  friends  the  keepers,  from  the 
easil3'-liad  com[)anioiisbi])  ot  his  pals  outside,  and 
from  the  society  of  his  criminal  lawyer,  and,  in 
short,  to  put  himself  into  the  depths  of  a  wilder- 
ness out  of  which  escape,  when  escape  was 
desired,  is  a  good  deal  more  difficult  than  it  is 
out  of  the  swarming  jails  of  the  Empire  State? 
Besides,  how  foolish  for  a  man,  if  he  were  a 
really  hardened  and  professional  criminal,  having 
established  connections  and  a  regular  business, 
to  run  awa}'  from  the  governor's  pardon,  which 
might  have  difficulty  in  finding  him  in  the  craggy 
bosom  of  Nipple  Top  ! 

This  gang  of  men  —  there  is  some  doubt 
whether  they  were  accompanied  by  women — ■ 
gave  little  evidence  in  their  appearance  of  being 
escaped  criminals  or  c::pectant  kings.  Their 
movements  were  m^'sterious  l)ut  not  necessarily 
violent.  If  their  occupation  could  have  been 
discovered,  that  would  have  furnished  a  clew  to 
their  true  character.  But  about  this  the  strangers 
were  as  close  as  mice.  If  an}'  thing  could  betray 
them,  it  was  the  steady  light  from  the  cavern,  and 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  161 

its  occasional  riuUh'  flashing.  Tliis  gave  rise  to 
the  opinion,  whicli  was  strengthened  In'  a  good 
man^'  indications  equall}-  conchisivc,  that  the  cave 
was  the  resort  of  a  ganof  of  coiners  and  counter- 
ieiters.  Here  the}-  had  their  furnace,  smelting- 
pots,  and  dies ;  here  the}'  manufactured  tliose 
spurious  quarters  and  halves  that  their  confidants, 
who  were  pardoned,  were  circulating,  and  which 
a  few  honest  men  were  "  nailing  to  the  counter.'* 
This  prosaic  explanation  of  a  romantic  situa- 
tion satisfies  all  the  requirements  of  the  known 
facts,  but  the  livel}'  imagination  at  once  rejects  it 
as  unworthy  of  the  subject.  I  think  the  guide 
put  it  forward  in  order  to  have  it  rejected.  The 
fact  is,  —  at  least,  it  has  never  been  disproved, 
—  these  sU  angers  whose  movements  were  veiled 
belonged  to  that  dark  and  mysterious  race  whose 
presence  an3'where  on  this  continent  is  a  nest-egg 
of  romance  or  of  terror.  The}'  were  Sj^aniards  I 
You  need  not  say  buccaneers,  you  need  not  say 
gold-hunters,  3'ou  need  not  sa}'  swarth}'  adven- 
turers even :  it  is  enough  to  sa}'  Spaniards ! 
There  is  no  tale  of  mystery  and  fanaticism  and 


162  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

daring  I  would  not  believe  if  a  Spaniard  is  the 
hero  of  it,  and  it  is  not  necessaiy  either  that  he 
should  have  the  high-sounding  name  of  Bobadilla 
or  Ojeda. 

Nobod}',  I  suppose,  would  doubt  this  story  if 
the  cave  were  in  the  mountains  of  Hispaniola  or 
in  the  Florida  Keys.  But  a  Spaniard  in  the 
Adirondacks  does  seem  misplaced.  Well,  there 
would  be  no  romance  about  it  if  he  were  not  mis- 
placed. The  Spaniard,  anj-where  out  of  Spain, 
has  always  been  misplaced.  What  could  draw 
him  to  this  logg}^  and  remote  region  ?  There  are 
two  substances  that  will  draw  a  Spaniard  from 
any  distance  as  certainly  as  sugar  will  draw 
wasps,  — gold  and  silver.  Does  the  reader  begin 
to  see  light?  There  was  a  rumor  that  silver 
existed  in  these  mountains.  I  do  not  know 
where  the  rumor  came  from,  but  it  is  necessary 
to  account  for  the  Spaniards  in  the  cave. 

How  long  these  greed}'  Spaniards  occupied  the 
cave  on  Nipple  Top,  is  not  known,  nor  how  much 
silver  they  found,  whether  they  found  an}-,  or 
whether  tjiey  secretly  took  away  all  there  was  in 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  163 

the  hills.  That  the}'  discovered  silver  in  con- 
siderable quantities,  is  a  fair  inference  from  the 
length  of  their  residence  in  this  mountain,  and 
the  extreme  care  the}-  took  to  guard  their  secret, 
and  the  m3'ster3'  that  enveloped  all  their  move- 
ments. AVhat  the}'  mined,  they  smelted  iii  tho 
cave  and  carried  off  with  them. 

To  my  imagination  nothing  is  more  impressive 
than  the  presence  in  these  savage  wilds  of  these 
polished  foreigners  and  accomplished  metal- 
lurgists, far  from  the  haunts  of  civilized  man, 
leading  a  life  of  luxury  and  revelry  in  this  almost 
inaccessible  cavern.  I  can  see  them  seated 
about  their  roaring  fire,  which  revealed  the  rocky 
ribs  of  their  den  and  sent  a  gleam  over  the  dark 
forest,  eating  venison-pasty  and  cutting  deep 
into  the  juicy  haunch  of  the  moose,  quaffing  deep 
draughts  of  red  wine  from  silver  tankards,  and 
then  throwing  themselves  back  upon  divans,  and 
lazily  puffing  the  fragrant  Plavana.  After  a  day 
of  toil,  what  more  natural,  and  what  more  prob- 
able for  a  Spaniard? 

Does   the  reader   think   these   inferences    not 


164  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

warranted  b}*  the  facts  ?  He  does  not  know  the 
facts.  It  is  true  that  our  guide  had  never  liim- 
self  personallj'  visited  the  cave,  but  he  has 
alwaj's  intended  to  hunt  it  up.  His  information 
in  regard  to  it  comes  from  his  father,  w^ho  was  a 
might}'  hunter  and  trapper.  In  one  of  his  expe- 
ditions over  Nipple  Top,  he  chanced  upon  the 
cave.  The  mouth  was  half  concealed  by  under- 
growth. He  entered,  not  without  some  appre- 
hension engendered  b}'  the  legends  which  make 
it  famous.  I  think  he  showed  some  boldness  in 
venturing  into  such  a  place  alone.  I  confess, 
that,  before  I  went  in,  I  should  want  to  fire  a 
Gatling  gun  into  the  mouth  for  a  little  while,  in 
order  to  rout  out  the  bears  which  usuall}^  dwell 
there.  He  went  in,  however.  The  entrance 
was  low ;  but  the  cave  was  spacious,  not  large, 
but  big  enough,  with  a  level  floor  and  a  vaulted 
ceiling.  It  had  long  been  deserted,  but  that  it 
was  once  the  residence  of  highly'  civilized  beings 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  The  dead  brands  in 
the  centre  were  the  remains  of  a  fire  that  could 
not  have  been  kindled  by  wild  beasts,  and  the 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  165 

loncs  scattered  about  had  been  scientifically 
Jissectcd  and  handled.  There  were  also  rem- 
naifts  of  furniture  and  pieces  of  garments  scat- 
tered about.  At  the  farther  end,  in  a  fissure  of 
the  rock,  were  stones  regularl}*  built  up,  the 
remains  of  a  larger  fire,  —  and  what  the  hunter 
did  not  doubt  was  the  smelting-furnace  of  the 
Spaniards.  He  poked  about  in  the  ashes,  but 
"ound  no  silver.  That  had  all  been  carried 
away. 

But  what  most  provoked  his  wonder  in  this 
rude  cave  was  a  chair  !  This  was  not  such  a 
seat  as  a  woodman  might  knock  u[)  with  an  axe, 
with  rough  bodj'  and  a  seat  of  woven  splits,  but 
a  manufactured  chair  of  commerce,  and  a  chair, 
too,  of  an  unusual  pattern  and  some  elegance. 
This  chair  itself  was  a  mute  witness  of  luxurj' 
and  m3-ster3'.  The  chair  itself  might  have  been 
accoimted  for,  though  I  don't  know  how  ;  but 
upon  the  back  of  the  chair  hung,  as  if  the  owner 
had  carelessh'  flung  it  there  before  going  out  an 
hoar  before,  a  man's  waistcoat.  This  u'aistcoat 
seemed   to   him   of    foreign   make   and   peculiar 


166  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

style,  but  what  endeared  it  to  him  was  its  row 
of  metal  buttons.  These  buttons  were  of  silver  ! 
I  forget  now  whether  he  did  not  say  they  f\ere 
of  silver  coin,  and  that  the  coin  was  Spanish. 
But  I  am  not  certain  about  this  latter  fact,  and 
I  wish  to  cast  no  air  of  improbabilit}"  over  my 
narrative.  This  rich  vestment  the  hunter  carried 
away  with  him.  This  was  all  the  plunder  his 
expedition  afforded.  Yes :  there  was  one  other 
article,  and,  to  my  mind,  more  signiflcant  than 
the  vest  of  the  hidalgo.  This  was  a  short  and 
stout  crowbar  of  iron ;  not  one  of  the  long  crow- 
bars that  farmers  use  to  pry  up  stones,  but  a 
short  handy  one,  such  as  30U  would  use  in  dig- 
ging silver-ore  out  of  the  cracks  of  rocks. 

This  was  the  guide's  simple  story.  I  asked 
him  what  became  of  the  vest  and  the  buttons, 
and  the  bar  of  iron.  The  old  man  wore  the  vest 
until  he  wore  it  out ;  and  then  he  handed  it  over 
to  the  bo3's,  and  the}'  wore  it  in  turn  till  they 
wore  it  out.  The  buttons  were  cut  off,  and  kept 
as  curiosities.  The}'  were  about  the  cabin,  and 
the  children  had  them  to  play  with.     The  guido 


A    WILDERNESS  ROMANCE.  167 

distinctly  remembers  pla3-iDg  with  them  ;  one  of 
them  he  kept  for  a  long  time,  and  he  didn't 
know  bnt  he  conld  find  it  now,  bnt  he  gnessed 
it  had  disappeared.  I  regretted  that  he  had  not 
treasured  this  slender  verification  of  an  interest- 
ing romance,  bat  he  said  in  those  days  he  never 
paid  much  attention  to  such  things.  Lately  he 
has  turned  the  subject  over,  and  is  sorr}'  that  his 
father  wore  out  the  vest  and  did  not  bring  away 
the  chair.  It  is  his  stead}'  purpose  to  find  the 
cave  some  time  when  he  has  leisure,  and  capture 
the  chair,  if  it  has  not  tumbled  to  pieces.  But 
about  the  crowbar?  Oh!  that  is  all  right.  The 
guide  has  the  bar  at  his  house  in  Keene  Valley, 
and  has  alwa3's  used  it. 

I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  confirm  this  story  by 
saying  that  next  da}*  I  saw  the  crowbar,  and 
had  it  in  my  hand.  It  is  short  and  thick,  and 
the  most  interesting  kind  of  crowbar.  This 
evidence  is  enough  for  me.  I  intend  in  the 
course  of  this  vacation  to  search  for  the  cave  ; 
and,  if  I  find  it,  my  readers  shall  know  the  truth 
about  it,  if  it  destroys  the  only  bit  of  romance 
connected  with  these  mountains. 


VIII. 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE  CALL  PLEASURE. 


Y  readers  were  promised  an  account  of 
Spaniard's  Cave  on  Nipple-Top  Moun- 
tain in  the  Adirondacks,  if  such  a  cavo 
exists,  and  could  be  found.  Tliere  is  none  but 
negative  evidence  that  this  is  a  mere  cave  of  the 
imagination,  the  void  ftinc}'  of  a  vacant  hour; 
but  it  is  the  duty  of  the  historian  to  present  the 
negative  testimony  of  a  fruitless  expedition  in 
search  of  it,  made  last  summer.  I  beg  leave  to 
olTer  this  in  the  simple  language  befitting  all 
cincere  exploits  of  a  geographical  character. 

The  summit  of  Nipple-Top  IMountain  has  been 

trodden  b}"  few  white    men   of  good  character : 

it  is  iuy  the  heart  of  a  hirsute  wilderness  ;    it  is 

itself  a  rough  and  unsocial  pile  of  granite  nearly 

1G3 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      1G9 

five  thousand  feet  high,  bristUng  v>-ith  a  stunted 
and  unpleasant  growth  of  firs  and  balsams,  and 
there  is  no  carthl}'  reason  why  a  person  should 
go  there.  Therefore  we  went.  In  the  party  of 
three  there  was,  of  course,  a  chaplain.  The 
guide  was  Old  Mountain  Phelps,  who  had  made 
the  ascent  once  before,  but  not  from  the  north- 
west side,  the  direction  from  which  we  ap- 
proached it.  The  enthusiasm  of  this  philoso- 
pher has  grown  with  his  3'ears,  and  outlived  his 
endui'ance :  we  carried  our  own  knapsacks  and 
supplies,  therefore,  and  drew  upon  him  for  noth- 
ing but  moral  reflections  and  a  general  knowl- 
edge of  the  wilderness.  Our  first  da3''s  route 
was  through  the  Gill-brook  woods  and  up  one  of 
its  branches  to  the  head  of  Caribou  Pass,  which 
separates  Nipple-Top  from  Colvin. 
V  It  was  about  the  first  of  September ;  no  rain 
had  fallen  for  several  weeks,  and  this  heart  of 
the  forest  was  as  dr}-  as  tinder  ;  a  lighted  match 
dropped  anywhere  would  start  a  conflagration. 
This  dr3'ness  has  its  advantages :  the  walking  is 
improved ;   the   long  heat  has  expressed  all  the 


170  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

spicy  odors  of  the  cedars  and  balsams,  and  the 
woods  are  filled  with  a  soothing  fragrance ; 
the  waters  of  the  streams,  though  scant  and 
clear,  are  cold  as  ice  ;  the  common  forest  chill  is 
gone  from  the  air.  The  afternoon  was  bright ; 
there  was  a  feeling  of  exultation  and  adventure 
in  stepping  off  into  the  open  but  pathless  forest ; 
the  great  stems  of  deciduous  trees  were  mottled 
with  patches  of  sunlight,  which  brought  out 
upon  the  variegated  barks  and  mosses  of  the  old 
trunlvs  a  thousand  shifting  hues.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  a  primeval  wood  for  color  on  a  sunny 
da}'.  The  shades  of  green  and  brown  are  in- 
finite ;  the  dull  red  of  the  hemlock  bark  glows  in 
the  sun,  the  russet  of  the  changing  moose-bush 
becomes  brilliant ;  there  are  silvery  openings 
here  and  tliere ;  and  everywhere  the  columns 
rise  up  to  the  canop}-  of  tender  green  which  sup- 
ports the  intense  blue  sky  and  holds  up  a  part  of 
it  from  falling  through  in  fragments  to  the  floor 
of  the  forest.  Decorators  can  learn  here  how 
Nature  dares  to  put  blue  and  green  in  juxtaposi- 
tion :  she  has  evidently  the  secret  of  harmonizing 
all  the  colors. 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      17] 

The  wa}',  as  we  ascended,  was  not  all  through 
open  woods  ;  dense  masses  of  firs  were  encoun- 
tered, jagged  spurs  were  to  be  crossed,  and  the 
going  became  at  length  so  slow  and  toilsome  that 
we  took  to  the  rocky  bed  of  a  stream,  where 
bowlders  and  flumes  and  cascades  offered  us 
sufficient  variet}'.  The  deeper  we  penetrated, 
the  greater  the  sense  of  savageness  and  solitude  ; 
in  the  silence  of  these  hidden  places  one  seems 
to  approach  the  beginning  of  things.  We 
emerged  from  the  defile  into  an  open  basin, 
formed  b}'  the  curved  side  of  the  mountain,  and 
stood  silent  before  a  waterfall  coming  down  out 
of  the  sk}'  in  the  centre  of  the  curve.  I  do  not 
know  an}'  thing  exactl}'  like  this  fall,  which  some 
poetical  explorer  has  named  the  Fairy-Ladder 
Falls.  It  appears  to  have  a  height  of  something 
like  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  the  water  falls 
oblique!}'  across  the  face  of  the  cliff  from  left 
to  right  in  short  steps,  which  in  the  moonlight 
might  seem  like  a  veritable  ladder  for  fairies. 
Our  impression  of  its  height  was  confirmed  by 
climbing  the  very  steep  slope   at  its  side   some 


172  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

three  or  four  hundred  feet.  At  the  top  we  found 
the  stream  flowhig  over  a  broad  bed  of  roek, 
like  a  street  in  tlie  wilderness,  slanting  up  still 
towards  the  skj-,  and  bordered  bj'  low  firs  and 
balsams,  and  bowlders  completely'  covered  with 
moss.  It  was  above  tlie  world  and  op^i  to  the 
sky. 

On  account  of  the  tindery  condition  of  the 
woods  we  made  our  fire  on  the  natural  pavement, 
and  selected  a  smootli  place  for  our  bed  near  by 
on  the  flat  rock,  with  a  pool  of  limpid  water  at 
the  foot.  This  granite  couch  we  covered  with 
the  dr^^  and  springy  moss,  which  we  stripped  off 
in  heavy  fleeces  a  foot  thick  from  the  bowlders. 
First,  however,  we  fed  upon  the  fruit  that  was 
offered  us.  Over  these  hills  of  moss  ran  an  ex- 
quisite vine  with  a  tin}',  ovate,  green  leaf,  bear- 
ing small,  delicate  berries,  oblong  and  white  as 
wax,  having  a  fiiint  flavor  of  wintergreen  and 
the  slightest  acid  taste,  the  ver}^  essence  of  the 
wilderness ;  fair}'  food,  no  doubt,  and  too  refined 
for  palates  accustomed  to  coarser  viands.  There 
must  exist  somewhere  sinless  women  who  could 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL   PLEASURE.      173 

cat  these  berries  without  being  rcmiiuled  uf  the 
lost  purity  and  deHeacy  of  the  [)riiiieval  senses. 
Every  year  1  doubt  not  this  stainless  berry 
ripens  Iierc,  and  is  unplueked  by  an}-  kniglit  of 
the  II0I3'  Grail  wlio  is  worth}'  to  eat  it,  and  keeps 
alive,  in  the  prodigalit}'  of  nature,  the  tradition 
of  the  unperverted  conditions  of  taste  before  the 
fall.  We  ate  these  berries,  I  am  l)ound  to  saj-, 
•with  a  sense  of  guilt}-  enjoyment,  as  if  they  had 
been  a  sort  of  shew-bread  of  the  wilderness, 
though  I  cannot  answer  for  the  chaplain,  who  is 
by  virtue  of  his  office  a  little  nearer  to  these 
mysteries  of  nature  than  I.  This  plant  belongs 
to  the  heath  family,  and  is  first  cousin  to  the 
blueberry  and  cranberry.  It  is  commonly  called 
the  creeping  snowberry,  but  I  like  better  its 
official  title  of  chiorjenes, — the  snow-born. 

Our  mossy  resting-place  was  named  the  Bridal 
Chamber  Camp,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  hour, 
after  darkness  fell  upon  the  woods  and  the  stars 
came  out.  We  were  two  thousand  five  hundred 
feet  above  the  common  world.  We  lay,  as  it 
were,  on   a  shelf  in  the  sk}-,  with   a  basin  0/ 


174  IN  THE    WILDERNESS: 

illimitable  forests  below  us  and  dim  mountain- 
passes  in  the  far  horizon. 

And  as  we  la}-  there  courting  sleep  which  the 
blinking  stars  refused  to  shower  down,  our  phi- 
losopher discoursed  to  us  of  the  principle  of  fire, 
which  he  holds,  with  the  ancients,  to  be  an  inde- 
pendent element  that  comes  and  goes  in  a  mj's- 
terious  manner,  as  we  see  flame  spring  up  and 
vanish,  and  is  in  some  way  vital  and  indestructi- 
ble, and  has  a  mj'sterious  relation  to  the  source 
of  all  things.  "That  flame,"  he  saj's,  "3-0U 
have  put  out,  but  where  has  it  gone?"  We 
could  not  sa}',  nor  whether  it  is  an}-  thing  like  the 
spirit  of  a  man  which  is  here  for  a  little  hour,  and 
then  vanishes  awa3\  Our  own  philosophy  of  the 
correlation  of  forces  found  no  sort  of  favor  at 
that  elevation,  and  we  went  to  sleep  leaving  the 
principle  of  fire  in  the  apostolic  category  of  "  any 
other  creature." 

At  daylight  we  were  astir  ;  and,  having  pressed 
the  principle  of  fire  into  our  service  to  make  a 
pot  of  tea,  we  carefuU}^  extinguished  it  or  sent  it 
into  another  place,  and  addressed  ourselves  to 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      175 

the  climb  of  something  over  two  thousand  feet. 
The  arduous  labor  of  scaling  an  Alpine  peak  has 
a  compensating  glorj^ ;  but  the  dead  lift  of  our 
bodies  up  Kipple-Top  had  no  stimulus  of  this 
sort.  It  is  simply  hard  work,  for  which  the 
strained  muscles  only  get  the  approbation  of  the 
individual  conscience  that  drives  them  to  the  task. 
The  pleasure  of  such  an  ascent  is  difficult  to  ex- 
plain on  the  spot,  and  I  suspect  consists  not  so 
much  in  positive  enjoyment  as  in  the  delight  the 
mind  experiences  in  t3Tannizing  over  the  body. 
I  do  not  object  to  the  elevation  of  this  mountain, 
nor  to  the  uncommonly  steep  grade  b}-  which  it 
attains  it,  but  only  to  the  other  obstacles  thrown 
in  the  way  of  the  climber.  All  the  slopes  of 
Nipple-Top  are  hirsute  and  jagged  to  the  last 
degree.  Granite  ledges  interpose  ;  granite  bowl- 
ders seem  to  have  been  dumped  over  the  sides 
with  no  more  attempt  at  arrangement  than  in  a 
rip-rap  wall ;  the  slashes  and  windfalls  of  a  cen- 
tury- present  here  and  there  an  almost  impenetra- 
ble chevalier  des  arbres;  and  the  steep  sides 
bristle  with  a  mass  of  thick  balsams,  with  dead, 


176  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

protruding  spikes,  as  unyielding  as  iron  stakes. 
The  mountain  has  had  its  own  wtiy  forever,  and 
is  as  untamed  as  a  wolf;  or  rather  the  elements, 
the  frightful  tempests,  the  frosts,  the  heav}" 
snows,  the  eoaxing  sun,  and  the^avalanches  have 
had  their  wa}-  with  it  until  its  surface  is  in  hope- 
less confusion.  We  made  our  wa}'  ver3'  slowl}' ; 
and  it  was  ten  o'clock  before  we  reached  what 
appeared  to  be  the  summit,  a  ridge  deeply 
covered  with  moss,  low  balsams,  and  blueberrj'- 
bushes. 

I  sa}',  appeared  to  be  ;  for  we  stood  in  tjiick  fog 
or  in  the  heart  of  clouds  which  limited  our  dim 
view  to  a  radius  of  twent}-  feet.  It  was  a  warm 
and  cheerful  fog,  stirred  b}'  little  wind,  but  mov- 
ing, shifting,  and  boiling  as  by  its  own  volatile 
nature,  rolling  up  black  from  below  and  dancing 
in  silver}-  splendor  overhead.  As  a  fog  it  could 
not  have  been  imi)rovcd  ;  as  a  medium  for  view- 
ing the  landscape  it  was  a  failure;  and  we  hy 
down  upon  the  Sybarite  couch  of  moss,  as  in  a 
Kussian  bath,  to  await  revelations. 

Wc  waited  two  hours  without  change,  cxcc[)t 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      177 

an  occasional  hopeful  lightness  in  the  fog  above, 
and  at  last  the  appearance  for  a  moment  of  the 
spectral  sun.  Only  for  an  instant  was  this 
luminous  promise  vonchsafed.  But  wc  watched 
in  intense  excitement.  There  it  was  again  ;  and 
this  time  the  fog  was  so  thin  overhead  that  we 
caught  sight  of  a  patch  of  blue  skj-  a  3'ard  square, 
across  which  the  curtain  was  instantl}'  drawn.  A 
little  wind  was  stirring,  and  the  fog  boiled  up 
from  the  vallej^  caldrons  thicker  than  ever.  But 
the  spell  was  broken.  In  a  moment  more  Old 
Phelps  was  shouting,  "The  sun!"  and  before 
we  could  gain  our  feet  there  was  a  patch  of  skj' 
overhead  as  big  as  a  farm.  "See!  quick!" 
The  old  man  was  dancing  like  a  lunatic.  There 
was  a  rift  in  the  vapor  at  our  feet,  down,  down, 
three  thousand  feet  into  the  forest  ab3'ss,  and  lo  I 
lifting  out  of  it  yondei:  the  tawn}'  side  of  Dix,  — 
the  vision  of  a  second,  snatched  awa}'  in  the 
rolling  fog.  The  pla}^  had  just  begun.  Before 
we  could  turn,  there  was  the  gorge  of  Caribou 
Pass,  savage  and  dark,  visible  to  the  bottom. 
The  opening  shut  as  suddenly ;  and  then,  looking 


178  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

over  the  clouds,  miles  away  we  saw  the  peaceful 
farms  of  the  Au  Sable  Vallej',  and  in  a  moment 
more  the  plateau  of  North  Elba  and  the  sentinel 
mountains  about  the  grave  of  John  Brown. 
These  glimpses  were  as  fleeting  as  thought,  and 
instantl}'  we  were  again  isolated  in  the  sea  of 
mist.  The  expectation  of  these  sudden  strokes 
of  sublimit}^  kept  us  exultingl}^  on  the  alert ;  and 
3'et  it  was  a  blow  of  surprise  when  the  curtain 
was  swiftl}^  withdrawn  on  the  west,  and  the  long 
ridge  of  Colvin,  seemingl}-  within  a  stone's 
throw,  heaved  up  like  an  island  out  of  the 
ocean,  and  was  the  next  moment  ingulfed.  We 
waited  longer  for  Dix  to  show  its  shapely  peak 
and  its  glistening  sides  of  rock  gashed  by  ava- 
lanches. The  fantastic  clouds,  torn  and  stream- 
ing, hurried  up  from  the  south  in  haste  as  if  to 
a  witch's  rendezvous,  hiding  and  disclosing  the 
great  summit  in  their  flight.  The  mist  boiled  up 
from  the  vallc}',  whirled  over  the  summit  where 
we  stood,  and  plunged  again  into  the  depths. 
Objects  were  forming  and  disappearing,  shifting 
and  dancing,  now  in  sun  and  now  gone  in  fog; 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE    CALL   PLEASURE.      179 

and  ill  the  elemental  whirl  we  felt  that  we  were 
"assisting"  in  an  original  process  of  creation. 
The  sun  strove,  and  his  very  striving  called  up 
new  vapors  ;  the  wind  rent  away  the  clouds,  and 
brought  new  masses  to  surge  about  us  ;  and  the 
spectacle  to  right  and  left,  above  and  below, 
changed  with  incredible  swiftness.  Such  glory 
of  abj'ss  and  summit,  of  color  and  form  and 
transformation,  is  seldom  granted  to  mortal  ej'es. 
For  an  hour  we  watched  it  until  our  vast  moun- 
tain was  revealed  in  all  its  bulk,  its  long  spurs, 
its  ab^'sses  and  its  savagery,  and  the  great  ba- 
sins of  wilderness  with  their  shining  lakes,  and 
the  giant  peaks  of  the  region,  were  one  by  one 
disclosed,  and  hidden  and  again  tranquil  in  the 
sunshine. 

Where  was  the  cave?  There  was  ample  sur- 
face in  which  to  look  for  it.  If  we  could  have 
flitted  about,  lilie  the  hawks  that  came  circling 
round,  over  the  steep  slopes,  the  long  spurs,  the 
jagged  precipices,  I  have  no  doubt  we  should 
have  found  it.  But  moving  about  on  this  moun- 
tain is  not  a  holiday  pastime  ;  and  we  were  chiefly 


180  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

anxious  to  discover  a  practicable  mode  of  descent 
into  the  great  wilderness  basin  on  the  south, 
which  we  must  traverse  that  afternoon  before 
reaching  the  hospitable  shant}'  on  Mud  Pond. 
It  was  enough  for  us  to  have  discovered  the 
general  whereabouts  of  the  Spanish  Cave,  and' 
we  left  the  fixing  of  its  exact  position  to  future 
explorers. 

The  spur  we  chose  for  our  escape  looked 
smooth  in  the  distance  ;  but  we  found  it  bristling 
with  obstructions,  dead  balsams  set  thickl}-  to- 
gether, slashes  of  fallen  timber,  and  ever}^  man- 
ner of  woody  chaos ;  and  when  at  length  we 
swung  and  tumbled  off  the  ledge  to  the  general 
slope,  we  exchanged  only  for  more  disagreeable 
going.  The  slope  for  a  couple  of  thousand  feet 
was  steep  enough ;  but  it  was  formed  of  granite 
rocks  all  moss-covered,  so  that  the  footing  could 
not  be  determhied,  and  at  short  intervals  we 
nearly  went  out  of  sight  in  holes  under  the 
treacherous  carpeting.  Add  to  this  that  stems 
of  great  trees  were  laid  longitudinall}'  and  trans- 
versely and  criss-cross  over  and  among  the  rocks, 


WBAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL   PLEASURE.      181 

and  the  reader  can  sec  that  a  good  deal  of  work 
needs  to  be  done  to  malic  this  a  practicable  high- 
way- for  an}'  thing  but  a  squirrel. 

We  had  had  no  water  since  our  da^dight  break- 
fast :  our  lunch  on  the  mountain  had  been  moist- 
ened onl}-  b}'  the  fog.  Our  thirst  began  to  be 
that  of  Tantalus,  because  we  could  hear  the 
water  running  deep  down  among  the  rocks,  but 
we  coukl  not  come  at  it.  The  imagination  drank 
the  living  stream,  and  we  realized  anew  what 
delusive  food  the  imagination  furnishes  in  an 
actual  strait.  A  good  deal  of  the  crime  of  this 
world,  I  am  convinced,  is  the  direct  result  of  the 
unlicensed  play  of  the  imagination  in  adverse 
circumstances.  This  reflection  had  nothing  to 
do  with  our  actual  situation  ;  for  we  added  to  our 
imagination  patience,  and  to  our  patience  long- 
suffering,  and  probably  all  the  Christian  virtues 
would  have  been  developed  in  us  if  the  descent 
had  been  Ions:  enou2;h.  Before  we  reached  the 
bottom  of  Caribou  Pass,  the  water  burst  out  from 
the  rocks  in  a  clear  stream  that  was  as  cold  as 
ice.     Shortly  after,  we  struck  the  roaring  brook 


182  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

that  issues  from  the  Pass  to  the  south.  It  is  a 
stream  full  of  character,  not  navigable  even  for 
trout  in  the  upper  part,  but  a  succession  of  falls, 
cascades,  flumes,  and  pools,  that  would  delight 
an  artist.  It  is  not  an  easy  bed  for  an}^  thing 
except  water  to  descend  ;  and  before  we  reached 
the  level  reaches,  where  the  stream  flows  with  a 
murmurous  noise  through  open  woods,  one  of  our 
party  began  to  show  signs  of  exhaustion. 

This  was  Old  Phelps,  whose  appetite  had  failed 
the  day  before,  — his  imagination  being  in  better 
working  order  than  his  stomach :  he  had  eaten 
little  that  da}^,  and  his  legs  became  so  groggy 
that  he  was  obhged  to  rest  at  short  intervals. 
Here  was  a  situation  !  The  afternoon  was  wear- 
ing away.  We  had  six  or  seven  miles  of  un- 
known wilderness  to  traverse,  a  portion  of  it 
swampy,  in  which  a  progress  of  more  than  a 
mile  an  hour  is  difficult,  and  the  condition  of  the 
guide  compelled  even  a  slower  march.  What 
should  we  do  in  that  lonesome  solitude  if  the 
guide  became  disabled?  We  couldn't  carry  him 
out :    could   we   find   our  own   way   out   to  get 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      183 

assistance?  The  guide  himself  had  never  been 
there  before ;  and  although  he  knew  the  general 
direction  of  our  point  of  egress,  and  was  en- 
tirel}'  adequate  to  extricate  himself  from  any 
position  in  the  woods,  his  knowledge  was  of  that 
occult  sort  possessed  by  woodsmen  which  it  is 
impossible  to  communicate.  Our  object  was  to 
strike  a  trail  that  led  from  the  Au  Sable  Pond, 
the  other  side  of  the  mountain-range,  to  an  inlet 
on  Mud  Pond.  We  knew  that  if  we  travelled 
south-westward  far  enough  we  must  strike  that 
trail j  but  how  far?  iSTo  one  could  tell.  If  we 
reached  that  trail,  and  found  a  boat  at  the  inlet, 
there  would  be  onl}^  a  row  of  a  couple  of  miles 
to  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  lake.  If  no  boat 
was  there,  then  we  must  circle  the  lake  three  or 
four  miles  farther  through  a  cedar-swamp,  with 
no  trail  in  particular.  The  prospect  was  not 
pleasing.  We  were  short  of  supplies,  for  we 
had  not  expected  to  pass  that  night  in  the 
woods.  The  pleasure  of  the  excui'sion  began  to 
develop  itself. 
We   stumbled    on    in    the    general    direction 


184  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

marked  out,  through  a  forest  that  began  to  seem 
endless  as  hour  after  hour  passed,  compelled  as 
we  were  to  make  long  detours  over  the  ridges  of 
the  foot-liills  to  avoid  the  swamp,  which  sent  out 
from  the  border  of  the  lake  long  tongues  into  the 
firm  ground.  The  guide  became  more  ill  at  every, 
step,  and  needed  frequent  halts  and  long  rests. 
Food  he  could  not  eat ;  and  tea,  water,  and  even 
brand3^,  he  rejected.  Again  and  again  the  old 
philosopher,  enfeebled  by  excessive  exertion  and 
illness,  would  collapse  in  a  heap  on  the  ground, 
an  almost  comical  picture  of  despair,  while  we 
stood  and  waited  the  waning  of  the  day,  and 
peered  forward  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  an  open 
countr}'.  At  ever}^  brook  we  encountered,  we 
suggested  a  halt  for  the  night,  while  it  was  still 
light  enough  to  select  a  camping-place,  but  the 
pluck}^  old  man  wouldn't  hear  of  it :  the  trail 
might  be  onl}^  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  and 
we  crawled  on  again  at  a  snail's  pace.  His  honor 
as  a  guide  seemed  to  be  at  stake ;  and,  besides, 
he  confessed  to  a  notion  that  his  end  was  near, 
and  he  didn't  want  to  die  lilic  a  dog  in  the  woods. » 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE    CALL   PLEASURE.      185 

And  3'et,  if  this  was  his  last  journe}',  it  seemed 
not  an  inappropriate  ending  for  the  old  woods- 
man to  lie  down  and  give  up  the  ghost  in  the 
midst  of  the  untamed  forest  and  the  solemn 
silences  he  felt  most  at  home  in.  There  is  a 
popular  theor}-,  held  b}'  civilians,  that  a  soldier 
likes  to  die  in  battle.  I  suppose  it  is  as  true 
that  a  woodsman  would  like  to  ' '  pass  in  his 
■  chips,"  —  the  figure  seems  to  be  inevitable, — 
struck  down  b}-  illness  and  exposure,  in  the  forest 
solitude,  with  heaven  in  sight  and  a  tree-root  for 
his  pillow. 

The  guide  seemed  reall}'  to  fear  that,  if  we  did 
not  get  out  of  the  woods  that  night,  he  would 
never  go  out ;  and,  3'ielding  to  his  dogged  resolu- 
tion, we  kept  on  in  search  of  the  trail,  although 
the  gathering  of  dusk  over  the  ground  warned  us 
that  we  might  easil}'  cross  the  trail  without  recog- 
nizing it.  We  were  travelling  by  the  light  in  the 
upper  sk}',  and  b}'  the  forms  of  the  tree-stems, 
which  ever}'  moment  grew  dimmer.  At  last  the 
end  came.  We  had  just  felt  our  wa}'  over  what 
seemed  to  be  a  little  run  of  water,  when  the  old 


186  TN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

man   sunk   down,  remarking,  "I  might  as  well 
die  here  as  anywhere,"  and  was  silent. 

Suddenl}"  night  fell  like  a  blanket  on  us.  We 
could  neither  see  the  guide  nor  each  other.  "\Yo 
became  at  once  conscious  that  miles  of  night  on  all 
sides  shut  us  in.  The  sky  was  clouded  over  :  there 
wasn't  a  gleam  of  light  to  show  us  where  to  step. 
Our  first  thought  was  to  build  a  fire,  which  would 
drive  back  the  thick  darkness  into  the  woods ^ 
and  boil  some  water  for  our  tea.  But  it  was  too 
dark  to  use  the  axe.  We  scraped  together  leaves 
and  twigs  to  make  a  blaze,  and,  as  this  failed, 
such  dead  sticks  as  we  could  find  by  groping 
about.  The  fire  was  only  a  temporar}'  aff'air,  but 
it  suflSced  to  boil  a  can  of  water.  The  water  we 
obtained  by  feeling  about  the  stones  of  the  little 
run  for  an  opening  big  enough  to  dip  our  cup  in. 
The  supper  to  be  prepared  was  fortunatelj'  sim- 
ple. It  consisted  of  a  decoction  of  tea  and  other 
leaves  which  had  got  into  the  pail,  and  a  part  of 
a  loaf  of  bread.  A  loaf  of  bread  which  has  been 
carried  in  a  knapsack  for  a  couple  of  days, 
bruised  and  handled  and  hacked  at  with  a  hunt* 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      187 

ing-knife,  becomes  an  uninteresting  object.  But 
we  ate  of  it  with  thankfulness,  washed  it  down 
with  hot  fluid,  and  bitterly  thought  of  the  mor- 
row. Would  our  old  friend  survive  the  night? 
Would  he  be  in  any  condition  to  travel  in  the 
morning?  How  were  we  to  get  out  with  him  or 
without  him  ? 

The  old  man  lay  silent  in  the  bushes  out  of 
sight,  and  desired  only  to  be  let  alone.  We 
tried  to  tempt  him  with  the  offer  of  a  piece  of 
toast :  it  was  no  temptation.  Tea  w^e  thought 
would  revive  him :  he  refused  it.  A  drink  of 
brandy  would  certainly  quicken  his  life :  he 
couldn't  touch  it.  We  were  at  the  end  of  our 
resources.  He  seemed  to  think,  that  if  he  were 
at  home,  and  could  get  a  bit  of  fried  bacon,  or  a 
piece  of  pie,  he  should  be  all  right.  We  knew 
no  more  how  to  doctor  him,  than  if  he  had  been 
a  sick  bear.  He  withdrew  within  himself,  rolled 
himself  up,  so  to  speak,  in  his  primitive  habits, 
and  waited  for  the  healing  power  of  nature. 
Before  our  feeble  fire  disappeared,  we  smoothed 
a  level  place  near  it  for  Phelps  to  lie  on,  and  got 


188  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

him  over  to  it.  But  it  didn't  suit :  it  was  too 
open.  In  fact,  at  the  moment  some  drops  of 
rain  fell.  Rain  was  quite  outside  of  our  pro- 
gramme for  the  night.  But  the  guide  had  an  in- 
stinct about  it ;  and,  while  we  were  groping  about 
some  3-ards  distant  for  a  place  where  we  could  lio, 
down,  he  crawled  away  into  the  darkness,  and 
cm-led  himself  up  amid  the  roots  of  a  gigantic 
pine,  ver}-  much  as  a  bear  would  do,  I  suppose, 
with  his  back  against  the  trunk,  and  there  passed 
the  night  comparatively  dr}^  and  comfortable ; 
but  of  this  we  knew  nothing  till  morning,  and 
had  to  trust  to  the  assurance  of  a  voice  out  of 
the  darkness  that  he  was  all  riMit. 

Our  own  bed  where  we  spread  our  blankets 
was  excellent  in  one  respect,  —  there  was  no 
danger  of  tumbling  out  of  it.  At  first  the  rain 
pattered  gentl}-  on  the  leaves  overhead,  and  we 
congratulated  ourselves  on  the  snugness  of  our 
situation.  There  was  something  cheerful  about 
this  free  life.  We  contrasted  our  condition  with 
that  of  tired  invalids  who  were  tossing  on  downy 
beds,  and  wooing  sleep  in  vain.     Nothing  was  so 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      189 

wholesome  and  invigorating  as  this  bivouac  in 
the  forest.  But,  somehow,  sleep  did  not  come. 
The  rain  had  ceased  to  patter,  and  began  to  fall 
with  a  steady- determination,  a  sort  of  soak,  soak, 
all  about  us.  In  fact,  it  roared  on  the  rubber 
blanket,  and  beat  in  our  faces.  The  wind  began 
to  stir  a  little,  and  there  was  a  moaning  on  high. 
Not  contented  with  dripping,  the  rain  was  driven 
into  our  faces.  Another  suspicious  circumstance 
was  noticed.  Little  rills  of  water  got  established 
along  the  sides  under  the  blankets,  cold,  undenia- 
ble streams,  that  interfered  with  drowsiness. 
Pools  of  water  settled  on  the  bed  ;  and  the  chap- 
lain had  a  habit  of  moving  suddenl}',  and  letting 
a  quart  or  two  inside,  and  down  m}'  neck.  It 
began  to  be  evident  that  we  and  our  bed  were 
probabl}'  the  wettest  objects  in  the  woods.  The 
rubber  was  an  excellent  catch-all.  There  was  no 
trouble  about  ventilation,  but  we  found  that  we 
had  established  our  quarters  without  an}'  provis- 
ion for  drainage.  There  was  not  cxactl}'  a  wild 
tempest  abroad  ;  but  there  was  a  degree  of  liveli- 
ness in  the  thrashing  limbs  and  the  creaking  of 


190  IN   THE    WILDERNESS. 

the  tree-branches  which  rubbed  against  each 
other,  and  the  pouring  rain  increased  in  vohime 
and  power  of  penetration.  Sleep  was  quite  out 
of  the  question,  with  so  much  to  distract  our 
attention.  In  fine,  our  miser}^  became  so  perfect 
that  we  both  broke  out  into  loud  and  sarcastic 
laughter  over  the  absurdity  of  our  situation.  Wo 
had  subjected  ourselves  to  all  this  forlornness 
simply  for  pleasure.  Whether  Old  Phelps  was 
still  in  existence,  we  couldn't  tell :  we  could  get 
no  response  from  him.  With  da3light,  if  he  con- 
tinued ill  and  could  not  move,  our  situation 
would  be  little  improved.  Our  supplies  were 
gone,  we  lay  in  a  pond,  a  deluge  of  water  was 
pouring  down  on  us.  This  was  summer  recrea- 
tion. The  whole  thing  was  so  excessivel}-  absurd 
that  we  laughed  again,  louder  than  ever.  We 
had  plent}"  of  this  sort  of  amusement. 

Suddenly  through  the  night  we  heard  a  sort  of 
repl}^  that  started  us  bolt  upright.  This  was  a 
prolonged  squaicJc.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  no 
beast  or  bird  with  which  we  were  familiar.  At 
&rst  it  was  distant ;  but  it  rapidly  approached, 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      191 

tearing  tliroiigh  the  night  and  apparently  through 
the  tree- tops,  Uke  the  harsh  cr\-  of  a  web-footed 
bird  witli  a  snarl  in  it;  in  fact,  ay  I  said,  a 
s(]aawk.  It  came  close  to  us,  and  then  turned, 
and  as  rapidl}-  as  it  came  fled  away  through  the 
forest,  and  we  lost  the  uuearthlj'  noise  far  up  the 
mountain-slope. 

'^  What  was  that,  Phelps?  "  we  cried  out.  But 
uo  response  came  ;  and  we  wondered  if  his  spirit 
had  been  rent  awa}-,  or  if  some  evil  genius  had 
sought  it,  and  then,  baffled  by  his  serene  and  phil- 
osophic spirit,  had  shot  off  into  the  void  in  rage 
and  disappointment. 

The  night  had  no  other  adventure.  The  moon 
at  length  coming  up  behind  the  clouds  lent  a 
spectral  aspect  to  the  forest,  and  deceived  us  for 
a  time  into  the  notion  that  day  was  at  hand  ;  but 
the  rain  never  ceased,  and  we  lay  wishful  and 
waiting,  with  no  item  of  soUd  miser}^  wanting 
that  we  could  conceive. 

Da}'  was  slow  a-coming,  and  didn't  amount  to 
much  when  it  came,  so  heavy  were  the  clouds ; 
but  the  rain  slackened.     We  crawled  out  of  our 


192  IN.  THE    WILDERNESS. 

water-cure  "pack,"  and  sought  the  guide.  To 
our  infinite  relief  he  announced  himself  not  only 
alive,  but  in  a  going  condition.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  had  stopped  at  five  o'clock.  I  poured 
the  water  out  of  it,  and  shook  it ;  but,  not  being 
constructed  on  the  hydraulic  principle,  it  refusecl 
to  go.  Some  hours  later  we  encountered  a  hunts- 
man, from  whom  I  procured  some  gun-grease : 
with  this  I  filled  the  watch,  and  heated  it  in  by 
the  fire.  This  is  a  most  effectual  way  of  treating 
a  delicate  Genevan  timepiece. 

The  light  disclosed  full}^  the  suspected  fact 
that  our  bed  had  been  made  in  a  slight  depres- 
sion :  the  under  rubber  blanket  spread  in  this 
had  prevented  the  rain  from  soaking  into  the 
ground,  and  we  had  been  lying  in  what  was  in 
fact  a  well-contrived  bath-tub.  While  Old  Phelps 
was  pulUng  himself  together,  and  we  were  wring- 
ing some  gallons  of  water  out  of  our  blankets,  we 
questioned  the  old  man  about  the  "squawk," 
and  what  bird  was  possessed  of  such  a  A^oice. 
It  was  not  a  bird  at  all,  he  said,  but  a  cat,  the 
black-cat  of  the  woods,  larger  than  the  domestic 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL  PLEASURE.      193 

animal,  and  an  iigl}' custoner,  who  is  fond  of  fish, 
and  carries  a  pelt  that  is  worth  two  or  three  dol- 
lars in  the  market.  Occasionall3'  he  blunders  into 
a  sable-trap ;  and  he  is  altogether  hateful  in  his 
wa3's,  and  has  the  most  uncultivated  voice  that  is 
heard  in  the  woods.  We  shall  remember  him  as 
one  of  the  least  pleasant  phantoms  of  that  cheer- 
ful night  when  we  la}^  in  the  storm,  fearing  any 
moment  the  advent  to  one  of  us  of  the  grimmest 
messenger. 

"We  rolled  up  and  shouldered  our  wet  belong- 
ings, and,  before  the  shades  had  yet  lifted  from 
the  saturated  bushes,  pursued  our  march.  It 
was  a  relief  to  be  again  in  motion,  although  our 
progress  was  slow,  and  it  was  a  question  every 
rod  whether  the  guide  could  go  on.  We  had  the 
da}'  before  us  ;  but  if  we  did  not  find  a  boat  at 
the  inlet  a  day  might  not  suffice,  in  the  weak  con- 
dition of  the  guide,  to  extricate  us  from  our 
ridiculous  position.  There  was  nothing  heroic  in 
it ;  we  had  no  object :  it  was  mereh',  as  it  must 
appear  b}'  this  time,  a  pleasure-excursion,  and  we 
might- be  lost  or  perish  in  it  without  reward  and 


194  IN  THE    WILDERNESS. 

with  little  sympatln'.  Wc  had  something  like  an 
hour  and  a  half  of  stumbling  through  the  swamp,, 
when  suddenly  we  stood  in  the  little  trail !  Slight 
as  it  was,  it  appeared  to  us  a  ver^'  Broadwa}^  to 
Paradise,  if  broad  ways  ever  lead  thither.  Phelps 
hailed  it,  and  sank  dow^n  in  it  like  one  reprieved 
from  death.  But  the  boat?  Leaving  him,  we 
quickl}'  ran  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  to  the  inlet. 
The  boat  w^as  there.  Our  shout  to  the  guide 
would  have  roused  him  out  of  a  death-slumber. 
He  came  down  the  trail  with  the  agility  of  an 
aged  deer :  never  was  so  glad  a  sound  in  his  ear, 
he  said,  as  that  shout.  It  was  in  a  ver}^  jubilant 
mood  that  we  emptied  the  boat  of  watery  pushed 
off,  shipped  the  clumsy  oars,  and  bent  to  the  two- 
mile  row  through  the  black  waters  of  the  wind- 
ing, desolate  channel,  and  over  the  lake,  whose 
darlc  waves  were  tossed  a  little  in  the  morning 
breeze.  The  trunks  of  dead  trees  stand  about 
this  lake,  and  all  its  shores  are  ragged  with 
ghastly-  drift-wood  ;  but  it  w-as  open  to  the  sky, 
and  although  the  heav}^  clouds  still  obscured  aU 
the  mountain-ranges  we   had  a  sense   of  escape 


WHAT  SOME  PEOPLE   CALL   PLEASURE.      195 

and  freedom  that  almost  made   the   melancholy 
scene  lovch'. 

How  ligiitl}'  past  hardship  sits  upon  us !  All 
the  miser}'  of  the  night  vanished,  as  if  it  had  not 
been,  in  the  shelter  of  the  log  cabin  at  Mud 
Pond,  with  dr}-  clothes  that  fitted  us  as  the  skin 
of  the  bear  fits  him  in  the  spring,  a  noble  break- 
fast, a  toasting  fire,  solicitude  about  our  comfort, 
judicious  S3'mpath3'  with  our  suff'ering,  and  will- 
ingness to  hear  the  now  growing  tale  of  our 
adventure.  Then  came,  in  a  da}-  of  absolute 
idleness,  while  the  showers  came  and  went,  and 
the  mountains  appeared  and  disappeared  in  sun 
and  storm,  that  perfect  phj'sical  enjoj'ment  which 
consists  in  a  feeling  of  strength  without  any 
inclination  to  use  it,  and  in  a  delicious  languor 
which  is  too  enjo3'able  to  be  surrendered  to  sleep. 


low  SPBING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


74. 
HOW  SPEING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

BY  A  READER  OF  '"93." 


EW  ENGLAND  is  the  battle-ground  of 
the  seasons.  It  is  La  Vendee.  To 
conquer  it  is  only  to  begin  the  fight. 
When  it  is  completely  subdued,  what  kind  of 
weather  have  3'ou  ?     None  whatever. 

What  is  this  New  England  ?  A  countrj'  ?  No  : 
a  camp.  It  is  alternateh-  invaded  by  the  hyper- 
borean legions  and  b}'  the  wilting  sirens  of  the 
tropics.  Icicles  hang  alwa3-s  on  its  northern 
heights  ;  its  seacoasts  are  fringed  with  mosquitoes. 
There  is  for  a  third  of  the  3'ear  a  contest  between 
the  icy  air  of  the  pole  and  the  warm  wind  of  the 
gulf.     The  result  of  this  is  a  compromise:   the 

199 


200   HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

compromise  is  called  Thaw.  It  is  the  normal 
condition  in  New  England.  The  New-Englandcr 
is  a  person  who  is  alwaj's  just  about  to  be  warm 
and  comfortable.  This  is  the  stuff  of  which 
heroes  and  mart^Ts  are  made.  A  person  thor- 
oughl}'  heated  or  frozen  is  good  for  nothings 
Look  at  the  Bongos.  Examine  (on  the  map)  the 
Dog-Rib  nation.  The  New-Englander,  hy  in- 
cessant activit}^,  hopes  to  get  warm.  Edwards 
made  liis  theology.  Thank  God,  New  England 
is  not  in  Paris  ! 

Hudson's  Ba}^,  Labrador,  Grinnell's  Land,  a 
whole  zone  of  ice  and  wabuses,  make  it  un- 
pleasant for  New  England.  This  icy  cover,  like 
the  lid  of  a  pot,  is  always  suspended  over  it: 
when  it  shuts  down,  that  is  winter.  This  would 
be  intolerable,  were  it  not  for  the  Gulf  Stream. 
The  Gulf  Stream  is  a  benign,  liquid  force,  flow- 
ing fiom  under  the  ribs  of  the  equator,  —  a  white 
knight  of  the  South  going  up  to  battle  the  giant 
of  the  North.  The  two  meet  in  New  England, 
and  have  it  out  there. 

This  is   the   theory ;    but,  in   fact,  the   Gulf 


EOW  SPRma  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    201 

Stream  is  mostly  a  delusion  as  to  New  England. 
For  Ireland  it  is  quite  another  thing.  Potatoes 
ripen  in  Ireland  before  they  are  planted  in  New 
England.  That  is  the  reason  the  Irish  emigrate  : 
they  desire  two  crops  the  same  year.  The  Gulf 
Stream  gets  shunted  off  from  New  England  by 
the  formation  of  the  coast  below :  besides,  it  is 
too  shallow  to  be  of  any  ser\'ice.  Icebergs  float 
down  against  its  surface-current,  and  fill  all  the 
New-England  ah*  with  the  chill  of  death  till 
June :  after  that  the  fogs  drift  down  from  New- 
foundland. There  never  was  such  a  mockery  as 
this  Gulf  Stream.  It  is  Uke  the  English  influ- 
ence on  France,  on  Em-ope.  Pitt  was  an  ice- 
berg. 

Still  New  England  sur\ives.  To  what  pur- 
pose? I  say,  as  an  example:  the  pohtician 
saj's,  to  produce  "  Poor  Boys."  Bah  !  The  poor 
boy  is  an  anachronism  in  civilization.  He  is  no 
longer  poor,  and  he  is  not  a  boy.  In  Tartary 
they  would  hang  him  foi*  sucking  aU  the  asses' 
milk  that  belongs  to  the  children :  in  New  Eng. 
land  he  has  all  the  cream  from  the  Public  Cow 


202   HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 

What  can  3'ou  expect  in  a  countiy  where  one 
knows  not  to-day  what  the  weather  will  be  to- 
morrow? Climate  makes  the  man.  Suppose  he, 
too,  dwells  on  the  Channel  Islands,  where  he  has 
all  climates,  and  is  superior  to  all.  Perhaps  he 
will  become  the  prophet,  the  seer,  of  his  age,  as 
he  is  its  Poet.  The  New-Englander  is  the  man 
without  a  climate.  Why  is  his  country  recog- 
nized?    You  won't  find  it  on  an}^  map  of  Paris. 

And  3'et  Paris  is  the  universe.  Strange  anom- 
cl}'- !  The  greater  must  include  the  less ;  but 
how  if  the  less  leaks  out  ?  This  sometimes  hap- 
pens. 

And  3'et  there  are  phenomena  in  that  country 
worth  observing.  One  of  them  is  the  conduct  of 
Nature  from  the  1st  of  March  to  the  1st  of  June, 
or,  as  some  saj-,  from  the  vernal  equinox  to  the 
summer  solstice.  As  Tourmalain  remarked, 
"  You'd  better  observe  the  unpleasant  than  to 
be  blind."  This  was  in  802.  Tourmalain  is 
dead  ;  so  is  Gross  Alain  ;  so  is  little  Pee  -Wee  • 
we  shall  all  be  dead  before  things  get  an^ 
better. 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    203 

That  is  the  law.  Without  rcvohition  there  is 
uothing.  What  is  rcvohition?  It  is  turning 
socict}'  over,  and  putting  the  best  underground 
for  a  fcrtiUzer.  Thus  only  will  things  grow. 
AV^hat  has  this  to  do  with  Xew  England  ?  In  the 
language  of  that  flash  of  social  hghtning,  Beran- 
ger,  "  Ma}^  the  Devil  fly  away  with  me  if  I  can 
see !  " 

Let  us  speak  of  the  period  in  the  j'car  in  New 
England  when  winter  appears  to  hesitate.  Ex- 
cept in  the  calendar,  the  action  is  ironical ;  but  it 
is  still  deceptive.  The  sun  mounts  high :  it  is 
above  the  horizon  twelve  hours  at  a  time.  The 
snow  gi-aduallj"  sneaks  away  in  liquid  repentance. 
One  morning  it  is  gone,  except  in  shaded  spots 
and  close  by  the  fences.  From  about  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  it  has  long  departed :  the  tree  is  a 
hving  thing,  and  its  gTowth  repels  it.  The  fence 
is  dead,  driven  into  the  earth  in  a  rigid  line  by 
man :  the  fence,  in  short,  is  dogma :  ic}^  preju- 
dice lingers  near  it. 

The  snow  has  disappeared ;  but  the  landscape 
is  a  ghastly  sight,  —  bleached,  dead.     The  ti'eea 


f04    HOW  SPRmO  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

are  stakes ;  the  grass  is  of  no  color ;  and  the 
bare  soil  is  not  brown  with  a  healthful  brown ; 
life  has  gone  out  of  it.  Take  up  a  piece  of  turf; 
it  is  a  clod,  without  warmth,  inanimate.  Pull  it 
in  pieces  :  there  is  no  hope  in  it :  it  is  a  part  of 
the  past ;  it  is  the  refuse  of  last  j^ear.  This  is 
the  condition  to  which  winter  has  reduced  the 
landscape.  When  the  snow,  which  was  a  pall, 
is  removed,  3'ou  see  how  ghastly  it  is.  The  face 
of  the  countrj'  is  sodden.  It  needs  now  onl}^  the 
south  wind  to  sweep  over  it,  full  of  the  damp 
breath  of  death ;  and  that  begins  to  blow.  No 
prospect  would  be  more  drear3\ 

And  yet  the  south  wind  fills  credulous  man 
with  joy.  He  opens  the  window.  He  goes  out, 
and  catches  cold.  He  is  stirred  by  the  m3^steri- 
ous  coming  of  something.  If  there  is  sign  of 
change  nowhere  else,  wx  detect  it  in  the  news- 
paper. In  sheltered  corners  of  that  truculent 
instrument  for  the  diffusion  of  the  prejudices  of 
the  few  among  the  many  begin  to  grow  the 
violets  of  tender  sentiment,  the  earl}^  greens  of 
yearning.     The  poet  feels  the  sap  of  the  neT? 


now  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.   205 

year  before  the  marsh- willow.  He  blossoms  in 
advance  of  the  catkins.  Man  is  greater  than 
Nature.  The  poet  is  gi'eater  than  man :  he  is 
nature  on  two  legs,  —  ambulatory. 

At  fii'st  there  is  no  appearance  of  conflict. 
The  winter  garrison  seems  to  have  withdrawn. 
The  invading  hosts  of  the  South  are  entering 
without  opposition.  The  hard  gi'ound  softens ; 
the  sun  hes  warm  upon  the  southern  bank,  and 
water  oozes  from  its  base.  If  3'ou  examine  the 
buds  of  the  lilac  and  the  flowering  shrubs,  you 
cannot  sa}"  that  they  are  sweUing ;  but  the  var- 
nish with  whicn  thej^  were  coated  in  the  fall  to 
keep  out  the  frost  seems  to  be  cracking.  If 
the  sugar-maple  is  hacked,  it  will  bleed, — the 
pure  white  blood  of  Nature. 

At  the  close  of  a  sunny  day  the  western  sky 
has  a  softened  aspect :  its  color,  we  sa}^,  has 
warmth  in  it.  On  such  a  day  you  maj'  meet  a 
caterpillar  on  the  footpath,  and  turn  out  for  him. 
The  house-fly  thaws  out ;  a  compan}-  of  cheerful 
wasps  take  possession  of  a  chamber- window.  It 
.s  oppressive  indoors  at  night,  and  the  window 


^06    EOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 

is  raised.  A  flock  of  millers,  born  out  of  time, 
flutter  in.  It  is  most  umisual  weather  for  the 
season :  it  is  so  every  3-ear.  The  delusion  is 
complete,  when,  on  a  mild  evening,  the  tree- 
toads  open  their  brittle-brattle  chorus  on  the  edge 
of  the  pond.  The  citizen  asks  his  neighbor, 
"Did  you  hear  the  frogs  last  night?"  That 
seems  to  open  the  new  world.  One  thinks  of  his 
childhood  and  its  innocence,  and  of  his  first  loves. 
It  fills  one  with  sentiment  and  a  tender  longing, 
this  voice  of  the  tree-toad.  Man  is  a  strange 
being.  Deaf  to  the  prayers  of  friends,  to  the 
sermons  and  warnings  of  the  church,  to  the  calls 
of  duty,  to  the  pleadings  of  his  better  nature,  he 
is  touched  b}^  the  tree-toad.  The  signs  of  the 
spring  multipl}'.  The  passer  in  the  street  in 
the  evening  sees  the  maid-servant  leaning  on  the 
area-gate  in  sweet  converse  with  some  one  lean- 
ing on  the  other  side ;  or  in  the  park,  which  is 
still  too  damp  for  any  thing  but  true  affection,  he 
Bees  her  seated  b3"  the  side  of  one  who  is  able  to 
protect  her  from  the  policeman,  and  hears  her 
eigh,  "  How  sweet  it  is  to  be  with  those  we  love 
to  be  with  I" 


now  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND,    207 

All  this  is  very  well;  but  next  morning  the 
newspaper  nips  these  early  buds  of  sentiment. 
The  telegraph  announces,  "  Twenty  feet  of  snow 
at  Ogden,  on  the  Pacific  Road  ;  winds  blowing  a 
gale  at  Omaha,  and  snow  still  falhng ;  mercury 
frozen  at  Duluth  ;  storm-signals  at  Port  Hm'on." 

Where  now  are  j'our  tree-toads,  3'our  young 
love,  your  early  season?  Before  noon  it  rains; 
by  three  o'clock  it  hails ;  before  night  the  bleak 
storm-cloud  of  the  north-west  envelops  the  sky ; 
a  gale  is  raging,  whii'hng  about  a  tempest  of 
snow.  By  morning  the  snow  is  drifted  in  banks, 
and  two  feet  deep  on  a  level.  Early  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  Drebbel  of  Holland  invented  the 
weather-glass.  Before  that,  men  had  suflTered 
without  knowing  the  degree  of  their  suffering. 
A  century  later.  Homer  hit  upon  the  idea  of 
using  mercury  in  a  thennometer ;  and  Fahi-enheit 
constructed  the  instrument  which  adds  a  new 
because  distinct  terror  to  the  weather.  Science 
names  and  registers  the  ills  of  life  ;  and  yet  it  i3 
a  gain  to  know  the  names  and  habits  of  our  ene- 
mies. It  is  with  some  satisfaction  in  our  knowl- 
edge that  we  sa}^  the  thermometer  marks  zero. 


^08    now  SPRIXG  CAME  JiV  NEW  ENGLAND. 

In  fact,  the  wild  beast  called  AVlnter,  untamed, 
has  returned,  and  taken  possession  of  New  Eng 
land.  Nature,  giving  up  her  melting  mood,  has 
retired  into  dumbness  and  white  stagnation.  But 
we  are  wise.  We  sa}*  it  is  better  to  have  it  now 
than  later.  We  have  a  conceit  of  understanding 
things. 

Extraordinary  blindness ! 

The  sun  is  in  alliance  with  the  earth.  Between 
the  two  the  snow  is  uncomfortable.  Compelled 
to  go,  it  decides  to  go  suddenh'.  The  first  da}' 
there  is  slush  with  rain;  the  second  da}-,  mud 
with  hail ;  the  third  day,  a  flood  with  sunshine. 
The  thermometer  declares  that  the  temperature  is 
delightful.  Man  shivers  and  sneezes.  His  neigh- 
bor dies  of  some  disease  newly  named  by  science  ; 
but  he  dies  all  the  same  as  if  it  hadn't  been  newly 
named.  Science  has  not  discovered  any  name 
that  is  not  fatal. 

This  is  called  the  breaking-up  of  winter. 

Nature  seems  for  some  days  to  be  in  doubt, 
not  exactly  able  to  stand  still,  not  daring  to  put 
forth  ajiy  thing  tender.     Man  sa^-s  that  the  worst 


EOW  SPnmG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    209 

is  over.  If  he  slionld  live  a  thousand  3-ears,  he 
would  be  deceived  eveiy  j'ear.  And  this  is  called 
an  age  of  scepticism.  Man  never  beheved  in  so 
many  things  as  now  :  he  never  believed  so  much 
in  himself.  As  to  Nature,  he  knows  her  secrets : 
he  can  predict  what  she  will  do.  He  communi- 
cates with  the  next  world  b}'  means  of  an  alpha- 
bet which  he  has  invented.  He  talks  with  souls 
at  the  other  end  of  the  spirit-wire.  To  be  sure, 
neither  of  them  sa3-s  any  thing ;  but  they  talk. 
Is  not  that  something  ?  He  suspends  the  law  of 
gi'avitation  as  to  his  own  body  —  he  has  learned 
how  to  evade  it  —  as  t^Tants  suspend  the  legal 
writs  of  habeas  corpus.  When  Gravitation  asks 
for  his  bod}',  she  cannot  have  it.  He  says  of 
himself,  "lam  infallible;  I  am  sublime."  He 
believes  all  these  things.  He  is  master  of  the 
elements.  Shakspeare  sends  him  a  poem  just 
made,  and  as  good  a  poem  as  the  man  could 
write  hi]Qself.  And  3'ct  this  man  —  he  goes  out 
of  <loors  without  his  overcoat,  catches  cold,  and 
is  buried  in  three  days.  "  On  the  21st  of  Janu- 
aiy,"  exclaimed  Mercier,  "all  kings  felt  for  ttie 


210   HOW  SPHmG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 

backs  of  their  necks."  This  might  be  said  of 
all  men  in  New  England  in  the  spring.  This  is 
the  season  that  all  the  poets  celebrate.  Let  us 
suppose  that  once,  in  Thessal}',  there  was  a  genial 
spring,  and  there  was  a  poet  who  sang  of  it.  All 
later  poets  have  sung  the  same  song.  "  Voila 
tout!  "     That  is  the  root  of  poetry. 

Another  delusion.  We  hear  toward  evening, 
high  in  air,  the  "conk"  of  the  wild-geese. 
Looking  up,  3'ou  see  the  black  specks  of  that 
adAxnturous  triangle,  winging  along  in  rapid 
flight  northward.  Perhaps  it  takes  a  wide  re- 
turning sweep,  in  doubt ;  but  it  disappears  in  the 
north.  There  is  no  mistaking  that  sign.  This 
unmusical  "conk"  is  sweeter  than  the  " ker- 
chunli ' '  of  the  bull-frog.  Probably  thpse  birds 
are  not  idiots,  and  probabl}^  they  turned  back 
south  again  after  spying  out  the  nakedness  of 
the  land  ;  but  thc}^  have  made  their  sign.  Nest 
da}'  there  is  a  rumor  that  somebody  has  seen  a 
blue-bird.  This  rumor,  unhai)pily  for  the  biid 
(which  will  freeze  to  death) ,  is  confirmed.  In 
less  than  three  days  everybody  has  seen  a  blue* 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    211 

bird ;  and  favored  people  have  heard  a  robin,  or 
rather  the  3'ellow-breasted  thrush,  misnamed  a 
robin  in  America.  This  is  no  doubt  true :  for 
angle-worms  have  been  seen  on  the  surface  of  the 
g:ound  ;  and,  wherever  there  is  any  thing  to  eat, 
tJiO  robin  is  promptl}'  on  hand.  About  this  time 
3'ou  notice,  in  protected,  sunn}^  spots,  that  the 
grass  has  a  little  color.  But  3'ou  say  that  it  is 
the  grass  of  last  fall.  It  is  very  difficult  to  tell 
when  the  grass  of  last  fall  became  the  gi'ass  of 
this  spring.  It  looks  "  warmed  over."  The 
gi'een  is  rusty.  The  lilac-buds  have  certainly 
swollen  a  little,  and  so  have  those  of  the  soft 
maple.  In  the  rain  the  grass  does  not  brighten 
as  3'ou  think  it  ought  to,  and  it  is  onl}-  when  the 
rain  ivLVn^  to  snow  that  yow  see  an}^  decided  green 
color  by  contrast  with  the  white.  The  snow 
gi'adually  covers  every  thing  very  quietl}',  how- 
over.  Winter  comes  back  without  the  least  noise 
or  bustle,  tkeless,  mahcious,  implacable.  Neither 
party  in  the  fight  now  makes  much  fuss  over  it ; 
and  you  might  think  that  Natm-e  had  sm-rendered 
altogether,  if  you  did  not  find  about  this  time, 


212    now  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 

in  the  woods,  on  the  edge  of  a  snow-bank,  the 
modest  blossoms  of  the  trailing  arbutus,  shedding 
Iheir  delicious  perfume.  The  bravest  are  alwaj's 
the  tenderest,  sa3's  the  poet.  The  season,  in  its 
blind  wa}^,  is  trying  to  express  itself. 

And  it  is  assisted.  There  is  a  cheerful  chatter 
in  the  trees.  The  blackbirds  have  come,  and  in 
numbers,  households  of  them,  villages  of  them, 
—  communes,  rather.  The}^  do  not  believe  in 
God,  these  blackbirds.  They  thinlv  the}^  can 
take  care  of  themselves.  We  shall  see.  But 
they  are  well  informed.  They  arrived  just  as  the 
last  snow-banlc  melted.  One  cannot  say  now 
that  there  is  not  greenness  in  the  grass ;  not  in 
the  wide  fields,  to  be  sure,  but  on  lawns  and 
banks  sloping  south.  The  dark-spotted  leaves 
of  the  dog-tooth  violet  begin  to  show.  Even 
Fahrenheit's  contrivance  joins  in  the  upward 
movement :  the  mercury  has  suddenly  gone  up 
fi-om  thirty  degrees  to  sixty-five  degrees.  It  is 
time  for  the  ice-man.  Ice  has  no  sooner  disap- 
peared than  we  desire  it. 

There  is  a  smile,  if  one  may  say  so,  in  the 


now  SPUING  CAME  m  new  England.  213 

blue  sk}',  and  there  is  softness  in  the  south  ^sind. 
The  song-spaiTOw  is  singing  in  the  apple-tree. 
Another  bird-note  is  heard,  —  two  long,  nuisical 
whistles,  liquid  but  metallic.  A  brown  bird  this 
one,  darker  than  the  song-sparrow,  and  without 
the  latter's  light  stripes,  and  smaller,  3-et  bigger 
than  the  queer  little  chipping-bird.  He  wants  a 
familiar  name,  this  sweet  singer,  who  appears  to 
be  a  sort  of  sparrow.  He  is  such  a  contrast  to 
the  blue-ja3's,  who  have  arrived  in  a  passion, 
as  usual,  screaming  and  scolding,  the  elegant, 
spoiled  beauties  !  The}'  wrangle  from  morning 
till  night,  these  beautiful,  high-tempered  aristo- 
crats. 

Encouraged  by  the  birds,  b}^  the  bursting  of 
the  iilac-buds,  by  the  pecping-up  of  the  crocuses, 
by  tradition,  by  the  sweet  flutterings  of  a  double 
hope,  another  sign  appears.  This  is  the  Easter 
bonnets,  most  delightful  flowers  of  the  year, 
emblems  of  innocence,  hope,  devotion.  Alas 
that  they  have  to  be  worn  under  umbrella?,  so 
much  thought,  freshness,  feeling,  tenderness, 
have  gone  into  them !     And  a  north-east  storm 


214    now  SFRING  CAME  IN"  NEW  ENGLAND. 

cf  rain,  accompanied  with  hail,  comes  to  crown 
all  these  virtues  with  that  of  self-sacrifice.  The 
frail  hat  is  offered  up  to  the  implacable  season. 
In  fact,  Nature  is  not  to  be  forestalled  nor  hur- 
ried in  this  way.  Things  cannot  be  pushed. 
Nature  hesitates.  The  woman  who  does  not 
hesitate  in  April  is  lost.  The  appearance  of  the 
bonnets  is  premature.  The  blackbirds  see  it. 
They  assemble.  For  two  daj^s  the}"  hold  a  noisy 
convention,  with  high  debate,  in  the  tree-tops- 
Something  is  going  to  happen. 

Say,  rather,  the  usual  thing  is  about  to  occui . 
There  is  a  wind  called  Auster,  another  called 
Eurus,  another  called  Septentrio,  another  Me- 
ridies,  besides  Aquilo,  Vulturnus,  Africus. 
There  are  the  eight  great  winds  of  the  classical 
dictionary-,  —  arsenal  of  m3'stery  and  terror  and 
of  the  unknown,  —  besides  the  wind  Euroaqiiilo 
of  St.  Luke.  This  is  the  wind  that  drives  an 
apostle  wishing  to  gain  Crete  upon  the  African 
Syrtis.  If  St.  Luke  had  been  tacking  to  got  to 
Ilyannis,  this  wind  would  have  forced  him  into 
Holmes's  Hole.  The  Euroaquilo  is  no  respecter 
of  persoas. 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  m  NEW  ENGLAND.    215 

These  winds,  and  others  unnamed  and  more 
terrible,  circle  about  New  England.  Thej'  form 
a  ring  about  it :  they  lie  in  wait  on  its  borders, 
but  onl}^  to  spring  upon  it  and  harrj^  it.  They 
follow  each  other  in  contracting  circles,  in  whirl- 
winds, in  maelstroms  of  the  atmosphere :  they 
meet  and  cross  each  other,  all  at  a  moment. 
This  New  England  is  set  apart :  it  is  the  exer- 
cise-ground of  the  weather.  Storms  bred  else- 
where come  here  full  -  grown :  the}'  come  in 
couples,  in  quartets,  in  choruses.  K  New  Eng- 
land were  not  mostly  rock,  these  winds  would 
carry  it  off;  but  they  would  bring  it  all  back 
again,  as  happens  with  the  sand}^  portions.  What 
sharp  Eurus  carries  to  Jersc}',  Africus  brings 
back.  When  the  air  is  not  full  of  snow,  it  is  full 
of  dust.  This  13  called  one  of  the  compensations 
of  Nature. 

This  is  what  happened  after  the  convention  of 
the  blackbirds :  A  moaning  south  wind  brought 
rain  ;  a  south-west  wind  turned  the  rain  to  snow  ; 
what  is  called  a  zephyr,  out  of  the  west,  drifted 
the  snow;    a  north  wind  sent  the  mercury  fai 


216  now  spmxG  came  m  new  ekgland. 

below  freezing.  Suit  added  to  snow  increases 
the  evaporation  and  the  cold.  This  was  the 
ofrue  of  the  north-cast  wind  :  it  made  the  snow 
dani[),  and  increased  its  bulk  ;  but  then  it  rained 
a  liutle,  and  froze,  thawing  at  the  same  tine. 
The  air  was  full  of  fog  and  snow  and  rain. 
And  then  the  wind  changed,  went  back  round 
the  cii'cle,  reversing  ever}'  thing,  like  dragging  a 
cat  b}'  its  tail.  The  mercurj'  approached  zero. 
This  was  nothing  uncommon.  "We  know  all  these 
winds.  We  are  famiUar  with  the  different  "  forms 
of  water." 

All  this  was  onl}'  the  prologue,  the  overture. 
If  one  might  be  permitted  to  speak  scientiiicallj', 
it  was  onl}'  the  tuning  of  the  instruments.  The 
opera  was  to  come,  —  the  .Flying  Dutchman  of 
the  air. 

There  is  a  wind  called  Euroclydon :  it  would 
be  one  of  the  Eumenides  ;  onl}'  they  are  women. 
It  is  Iialf-brother  to  the  gigantic  storm-wind  of 
the  equinox.  The  Eurocl^clon  is  not  a  wind  :  it 
is  a  monster.  Its  breath  is  frost.  It  has  snow 
in  its  hair.  It  is  something  terrible.  It  peddles 
rheumatism,  and  plants  consumption. 


HOW  SPRmG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    217 

The  Eurocl3'(lon  knev/  just  the  moment  to  strike 
into  the  discord  of  the  weather  in  New  Er.gland. 
From  its  kiir  about  Point  Desolation,  from  the 
glaciers  of  the  Greenland  continent,  sweeping 
ronnd  the  coast,  leaving  wrecks  in  its  track,  it 
marched  right  athwart  the  other  conflicting 
winds,  chnrning  them  into  a  ftuy,  and  inangurat- 
ing  chaos.  It  was  the  Marat  of  the  elements. 
It  was  the  revolution  marching  into  the  "  dreaded 
wood  of  La  Sandraie." 

Let  us  sum  it  all  up  in  one  word  :  it  was  some- 
thing for  which  there  is  no  name. 

Its  track  was  destruction.  On  the  sea  it  leaves 
wrecks.  What  does  it  leave  on  land  ?  Funerals. 
When  it  subsides,  New  England  is  prostrate.  It 
has  left  its  legac}' :  this  legac}^  is  coughs  and 
patent  medicines.  This  is  an  epic ;  this  is  des- 
tiny'. You  tliinli  Providence  is  expelled  out  of 
New  England  ?     Listen  ! 

Two  da3's  after  Euroch-don,  I  found  in  the 
ivoods  the  hepatica  —  earliest  of  wild  wood  flowers, 
evident!}'  not  intimidated  b}'  the  wild  work  of  the 
amiies  trampling  over  New  England  —  daiing  to 


218    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.       ^ 

hold  up  its  tender  blossom.  One  could  not  but 
admire  the  quiet  pertinacity  of  Nature.  She  had 
been  painting  the  grass  under  the  snow.  In 
spots  it  was  "sdvid  gi-een.  There  was  a  mild  rain, 
—  mild,  but  chilly.  The  clouds  gathered,  a...d 
broke  away  in  light,  fleecy  masses.  There  v^Hs 
a  softness  on  the  hills.  The  birds  suddenly 
were  on  every  tree,  glancing  through  the  air, 
fiUing  it  with  song,  sometimes  shaking  rain-drops 
from  their  wings.  The  cat  brings  in  one  in  his 
mouth.  He  thinks  the  season  has  begun,  and 
the  game-laws  are  ofl".  He  is  fond  of  Nature, 
this  cat,  as  we  all  are :  he  wants  to  possess  it. 
At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  there  is  a  grand 
dress-rehearsal  of  the  birds.  Not  all  the  pieces 
of  the  orchestra  have  arrived ;  but  there  are 
enough.  The  grass-sparrow  has  come.  This  is 
certainly  charming.  The  gardener  comes  to  talk 
about  seeds :  he  uncovers  the  strawberries  and 
the  grape-vines,  salts  the  asparagus-bed,  and 
plants  the  peas.  You  ask  if  he  planted  thera 
with  a  shot-gun.  In  the  shade  there  is  still  frost 
in  tlie  gi'ound.     Nature,  in  fact,  still  hesitates, 


now  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.   219 

puts  forth  one  hepatica  at  a  time,  and  waits  to 
see  the  result ;  pushes  up  the  grass  slowly,  per- 
haps draws  it  in  at  night. 

This  indecision  we  call  Spring. 

It  becomes  painful.  It  is  like  being  on  the 
rack  for  ninet}^  days,  expecting  every  day  a  re- 
prieve.    Men  grow  hardened  to  it,  however. 

This  is  the  order  with  man,  —  hope,  surprise, 
bewilderment,  disgust,  facetiousness.  The  peo- 
ple in  New  England  finally  become  facetious 
about  spring.  This  is  the  last  stage :  it  is  the 
most  dangerous.  When  a  man  has  come  to  make 
a  jest  of  misfortune,  he  is  lost.  "It  bores  me 
to  die,"  said  the  journalist  Can-a  to  the  heads- 
man at  the  foot  of  the  giiillotine  :  "  I  would  lil5:e 
to  have  seen  the  continuation."  One  is  also 
Interested  to  see  how  spring  is  going  to  turn  out. 

A  da}'  of  sun,  of  delusive  bird-singing,  sight 
of  the  mellow  earth,  —  all  these  begin  to  beget 
confidence.  The  night,  even,  has  been  wann. 
IJut  what  is  this  in  the  morning  journal  at  bi'eak- 
fast?  —  "  An  area  of  low  pressure  is  moving  fiom 
the  Tortugas  north."     You  shudder. 


220    HOW  SPRIXG  CAME  7JV  NEW  ENGLAND. 

What  is  this  Low  Pressure  itsdf,  —  it?  It  is 
Bometliing  frightful,  low,  crouching,  creeping, 
advancing ;  it  is  a  foreboding ;  it  is  misfortune 
bj^  telegraph  ;  it  is  the  "  '93  "  of  the  atmosphere. 

This  low  pressure  is  a  creation  of  Old  Prob 
What  is  that?  Old  Prob.  is  the  new  deity  of  tlic 
Americans,  greater  than  JEolus,  more  despotic 
than  Sans-Culotte.  The  wind  is  his  servitor,  the 
lightning  his  messenger.  He  is  a  mj'ster}^  made 
of  six  parts  electricit}',  and  one  part  "guess." 
This  deit}'  is  worshipped  b}'  the  Americans ;  his 
name  is  on  ever}'  man's  lips  first  in  the  morning ; 
he  is  the  Frankenstein  of  modern  science. 
Housed  at  Washington,  his  business  is  to  direct 
the  storms  of  the  whole  country-  upon  New  Eng- 
land, and  to  give  notice  in  advance.  This  he 
does.  Sometimes  he  sends  the  storm,  and  then 
gives  notice.  This  is  mere  pla3fLilness  on  ]iis 
part :  it  is  all  one  to  him.  His  great  power  is  in 
the  low  pressure. 

On  the  Bexar  plains  of  Texas,  among  the  hills 
of  the  Presidio,  along  the  Rio  Grande,  low  press- 
ure is  bred  ;  it  is  nursed  also  in  the  Atchafalaya 


now  sPRiyo  came  ay  xew  englaxd.  221 

swamps  of  Louisiana, ;  it  moves  1)\'  the  way  of 
Tliibodcaiix  and  Bonnet  Carre.  The  south-west 
*«j  a  magazine  of  atmospheric  disasters.  Lo^ 
pressure  maj'  be  no  worse  than  the  others :  it  is 
l>etter  known,  and  is  most  used  to  inspire  terror. 
It  can  be  summoned  an}'  time  also  fj'om  the 
everglades  of  Florida,  from  ^he  morasses  of  the 
Okeechobee. 

When  the  New-P^nglander  sees  this  in  his 
newspaper,  he  knows  what  it  means.  He  lias 
twenty-four  hours'  warning ;  but  what  can  he 
do  ?  Nothing  but  watch  its  certain  advance  by 
telegraph.  He  suffers  in  anticipation.  That  is 
what  Old  Prob.  has  brought  about,  —  suffering 
by  anticipation.  This  low  pressure  advances 
against  the  wind.  The  wind  is  from  the  north- 
east. Nothing-  could  be  more  unpleasant  than  a 
north-east  wind?  Wait  till  low  pressure  joins  it. 
Together  the}'  make  spring  in  New  England. 
A  north-east  storm  from  the  south-west!  —  tlicre 
IS  no  bitterer  satire  than  this.  It  lasts  three 
duys.  After  that  the  weather  changes  into  somc- 
fJug  wiuter-like. 


222  HOW  sPEma  CAME  m  new  England. 

A  solitary  song-sparrow,  without  a  note  of  joy, 
hops  along  the  snow  to  the  dining-room  ■window, 
and,  turning  his  httle  head  aside,  looks  up.  He 
is  hungiy  and  cold.  Little  Minnette,  clasping 
her  hands  behind  her  back,  stands  and  looks  at 
him,  and  sa3's,  "Po'  birdie!"  The}"  appear  to 
understand  each  other.  The  sparrow  gets  his 
crumbs  ;  but  he  knows  too  much  to  let  Minnette 
get  hold  of  him.  Neither  of  these  little  things 
could  take  care  of  itself  in  a  New-England  spring 
—  not  in  the  depths  of  it.  This  is  what  the 
father  of  Minnette,  looking  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  wide  waste  of  snow,  and  the  evergreens 
bent  to  the  ground  with  the  weight  of  it,  says, 
"It  looks  like  the  depths  of  spring."  To  this 
has  man  come :  to  his  facetiousness  has  succeeded 
sarcasm.     It  is  the  first  of  Maj^ 

Then  follows  a  day  of  bright  sun  and  blue  sky. 
The  birds  open  the  morning  with  a  lively  chorus. 
In  spite  of  Austcr,  Eurochxlon,  low  pressure, 
and  the  government  bureau,  things  have  gone 
forward.  By  the  roadside,  where  the  snow  haa 
just  melted,  the  grass  is  of  the  color  of  em'^.rald 


EOW  SPSmG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    223 

The  heart  leaps  to  see  it.  On  the  lawn  there  are 
twenty  robins,  lively,  nois}',  wonn-seeking.  Their 
yellow  breasts  contrast  with  the  tender  green  of 
the  newl3'-springing  clover  and  herd's-grass.  If 
they  would  onl}^  stand  still,  we  might  thirk  the 
dandelions  had  blossomed.  On  an  evergreen- 
bough,  looking  at  them,  sits  a  graceful  bird, 
whose  back  is  bluer  than  the  sky.  There  is  a  red 
tint  on  the  tips  of  the  boughs  of  the  hard  maple. 
With  Nature,  color  is  life.  See,  akeady,  gi-een, 
3'ellow,  blue,  red  !  In  a  few  da^'s  —  is  it  not  so? 
—  thi'ough  the  green  masses  of  the  trees  will 
flash  the  orange  of  the  oriole,  the  scarlet  of  the 
tanager ;  perhaps  to-morrow. 

But,  in  fact,  the  next  day  opens  a  little  sourly. 
It  is  almost  clear  overhead :  but  the  clouds 
thicken  on  the  horizon ;  the}'  look  leaden ;  they 
threaten  rain.  It  certainly  will  rain :  the  air 
feels  like  rain,  or  snow.  By  noon  it  begins  to 
snow,  and  you  hear  the  desolate  cry  of  the 
phoebe-bii-d.  It  is  a  fine  snow,  gentle  at  first ; 
but  it  soon  drives  in  swerving  lines,  for  the  wind 
ts  from  the  south-west,  from  the  west,  from  the 


224    HOW  SPRING  CAME  7JV  NEW  ENGLAND, 

north-east,  from  the  zenith  (one  of  the  ordinary 
winds  of  New  England),  from  all  iDoints  of  the 
compass.  The  fine  snow  becomes  rain ;  it  be- 
comes large  snow  ;  it  melts  as  it  falls  ;  it  freezes 
as  it  falls.  At  last  a  storm  sets  in,  aiid  nigiit 
shuts  down  upon  the  bleak  scene. 

During  the  night  there  is  a  change.  It  thun- 
ders and  lightens.  Toward  morning  there  is  a 
brilliant  display  of  aurora  borealis.  This  is  a 
sign  of  colder  weather. 

The  gardener  is  in  despair ;  so  is  the  sports- 
man. The  trout  take  no  pleasure  in  biting  in 
such  weather.  Paragraphs  appear  in  the  news- 
papers, copied  from  the  paper  of  last  year,  sa}'- 
ing  that  this  is  the  most  severe  spring  in  thirty 
yeai*s.  Ever}^  one,  in  fact,  believes  that  it  is, 
and  also  that  next  year  the  spring  will  be  early. 
Man  is  the  most  gullible  of  creatures. 

And  with  reason :  he  trusts  his  e3"es,  and  not 
his  instinct.  During  this  most  sour  weather  of 
the  3'ear,  the  anemone  blossoms  ;  and,  almost 
inunediately  after,  the  fairy  pencil,  the  spring 
beauty,  the  dog-tooth  violet,  and  the  true  violet 


now  SPBIXG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    225 

In  clouds  and  fog,  and  rain  and  snow,  and  all 
discouragement.  Nature  pushes  on  her  forces 
with  progressive  haste  and  rapidit}'.  Before  one 
is  aware,  all  the  lawns  and  meadows  are  deepl}' 
green,  the  trees  are  opening  their  tender  leaves. 
In  a  burst  of  sunshine  the  cherry-trees  are  while, 
the  Judas-tree  is  pink,  the  hawthorns  gi\e  a 
sweet  smell.  The  air  is  full  of  sweetness ;  the 
world,  of  color. 

In  the  midst  of  a  chiUing  north-east  storm  the 
ground  is  strewed  with  the  white-and-pink  blos- 
soms from  the  apple-trees.  The  next  day  the 
mercury  stands  at  eight}'  degi'ees.  Summer  has 
come. 

There  was  no  Spring. 

The  winter  is  over.  You  think  so?  Robes- 
pien-e  thought  the  Revolution  was  over  in  the 
bcinnninor  of  his  last  Thermidor.  He  lost  liis 
head  after  that. 

When  the  first  buds  are  set,  and  the  corn  is 
up,  and  the  cucumbers  have  four  leaves,  a  mali- 
cious frost  steals  down  from  the  north  and  kills 
them  in  a  night. 


226    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

That  is  the  last  effort  of  spring.  The  mercury 
then  mounts  to  ninet}'  degrees.  The  season  has 
been  long,  but,  on  the  whole,  successful.  Many 
people  survive  it. 


94  14 


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